


Up in Smoke and Down in Flames

by SupposedToBeWriting



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Loss/Amnesia, Plotty, Post-Ending AU, Slow Burn, post-ep160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 76,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupposedToBeWriting/pseuds/SupposedToBeWriting
Summary: The last few years have been foggy for Martin, which is perfectly fine for him and his perfectly normal, mundane life. That is, until he walks into the Eyeclops that's been haunting his dreams every night for the past six months. As he wrestles with a past that he can't remember, Martin is soon faced with an even more dangerous individual: one who has machinations larger than he could've ever imagined.And it might just be up to Jon, who never thought he'd be perceived by the world again, to save him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 70
Kudos: 202





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW for Chapter 1: Eye-related body horror, arson

The Archivist shuffled among the long corridors of the Institute. Earlier – it felt like millennia before, now – he had maintained a fast, frantic pace. It had been the sprinting footfalls of a man desperate to escape where he could not. He had once pounded on the walls until his fists bled. Now, the Archivist understood that there would be no escape, because this was no prison. His stay in this place, in this building, did not sadden him. A heart was settled inside a ribcage, an Archivist was settled inside the Archives. No tears were shed from his eyes.

Any of his eyes.

No light illuminated the halls, but the Archivist had no trouble seeing where he was going. Once, the bookshelves had been shorter. Eight feet tall, no more than what may be expected from a standard bookcase in a repository of knowledge. They now extended to the ceiling in dense clusters. Many of the books had no names on their spines. It hardly mattered. More appeared by the hour as the Archives grew and expanded, but the Archivist did not read them.

He knew what they contained already.

His coat, ragged and stained, fluttered softly around him with every step. Where the coat had come from, he didn’t know, but he appeared to have always worn it and always would. The dust on it was thick and it hung to him in rough tatters. Underneath, a shirt that had once been white was matted to his frail body. A bullethole was centered right in his abdomen, framed by long-dried blood.

For today, The Archivist’s destination was Artifact Storage. While books held no secrets from him, certain artifacts still seemed entirely irregular. In his mind’s eye, they were covered in cobwebs, dirt, dark, _meat._ He had to go and manipulate them in person for any sort of deeper insight. While he preferred to remain in the library (he would not consider it his _home,_ because a home seemed inextricably tied to identity), sometimes he was forced to leave it. But the library was so very large, and Artifact Storage was so very far away, and it would take a long while to find a door.

In terms of sheer architecture, Artifact Storage was in the basement, and the Library was not. Stairs, the Archivist considered, had to be somewhere around in the original design of the building. But he had not been near the stairs for some time. Every door he passed through seemed to open to his desired destination anyway, it was just _getting to the door_ that proved difficult on occasion. A physical body was such a _hindrance._

Every so often, the Archivist would pass a long fiber snagged on the end of the bookshelf or shining on the floor. Sometimes it would make him flinch, a rare external show from the Watcher, because he would presume it to be – of course -- spiderweb silk. A last impulse from a primitive, oh-so-human mind that rested inside of his skull still. It was not; the Web would find no longer find any insight in a place like this. They could not steal from the Eye’s knowledge any longer, with the Archivist coming into his full ability. And yet, the Archivist _feared._

It was his own hair, occasionally inadvertently plucked from his own scalp as he made his way through the aisles. Most of it still remained on his own head, long and straight and extending to the small of his back. The color itself was not unlike a spiderweb, though dark strands still interspersed themselves between the gray.

He looked up. The bookcases did not seem to have a top, nor could the Archivist see the ceiling. His fringe covered his eyes (and most of his face, and most of his chest, for that matter), but it never prevented him from _seeing,_ usually. The wooden bookcases simply extended up into darkness as well as the books they contained. Looking forward, the Archivist saw that the hallway in front of him also stretched out into darkness. It was no large leap of logic to presume that all of the library was cast in shadow. But he, wherever he stood, could see perfectly fine. Was he generating light, he wondered, or simply ignoring the darkness?

His mind shuffled through what he knew, in search of an answer. He poured through statements in his head, spoken and unspoken, flicking through them with the touch of an expert. The Archivist was clever and knew so very much, after all.

-

_Elias, looking up at him from the floor. The sockets that once held his eyes were bloody and red; Jon saw no more of the hazel color that had haunted him for so many years. He didn’t think it was possible for a man without eyes to glare so fiercely, and yet, Elias somehow seemed to manage. The pipe in Jon’s hands felt unbearably heavy. He tasted copper and mint on his breath._

_“Kill me,” Elias warned, “And you’ll become the Eye’s pupil. Do you even know what that entails, Jon? Of course you don’t.”_

_“I’m already a monster,” Jon returned thickly, despair creeping into his voice. There was blood still seeping from the wound in his midsection, a confirmation of his words. A human could not have survived such an injury. A human did not feel the power coursing through him, even now, the gigantic flood of information seeping into his head. It made it hard to even keep his eyes open. Did Elias go through this? Knowing_ everything?

_The subsequent question was unspoken – what else was there to lose? He could feel it, at the edges of his mind, light shining on corridors that should’ve remained darkened. He had more in common with the eyeless man in front of him than the man he loved so dearly in the previous room. He felt like his skin was burning just underneath the surface, and he felt … he felt_ itchy.

_Elias chuckled at him. “Sentenced to remain in the Institute for eternity, constantly observing, wondering, Knowing? Do you think that my situation was_ usual? _I changed bodies for centuries so that I wouldn’t be some mindless monster, unknown to all. You? You’ll just be forgotten by the others. No more poor, tortured, self-hating Jon that needs so much looking after.”_

_Jon wasn’t going to sit around and be intimidated. “I don’t care.” But that was a lie, and Jon knew it was a lie, because he was so scared. He was so scared of being trapped in this place forever. He was so scared of losing whatever identity he was clinging to. He was so scared of never being able to see the others again. He was so scared of the others forgetting him._

_But there were acceptable losses and unacceptable losses. Unacceptable losses would be allowing this man to live and wreak havoc. Cause the end of the world, even. Acceptable losses would be …_

_Him._

_Free will was a funny old thing. Do it right, and it’s like it never even existed at all._

_Elias chuckled, again. He brought his hand up to his socket, pressing his palms there as if covering his sight. Jon couldn’t imagine how much pain he must have been in, but he betrayed nothing from it. “Forever,” Elias repeated again. “Is a_ very, _very long time.” And then he shut his eyelids, splattered with blood as they were. “I can’t say it’s a fate you don’t deserve. I’d check your arms, if I were you.”_

_A whimper died in the back of Jon’s throat as he did just that. Oaken eyes stared back up at him from his forearms, red-eyed, weepy, and viscously wet. Two smaller eyes seemed to bump against one another, squeezing, before combining into a larger one, blinking up at him rapidly. Jon retched despite himself, horrified and disgusted at his own body._

_God. He wished he had someone with him, anyone, Martin, Daisy, Basira, Melanie, Georgie, Tim, Sasha, his grandmother, anyone that could just put a hand on his shoulder, tell him that he was going to be okay. That he’d wake up back in Scotland, with Martin, scared but content. But he was alone, only with his statements – no,_ memories, _Jon told himself fiercely, they’re just memories, not statements. He was just going to … think of that. Until the end, he would think of the safehouse in Scotland, with Martin. Falling asleep with Martin’s hand intertwined in his._

_He was running out of time._

_“I don’t care,” Jon repeated in a hoarse voice and raised the pipe._

_Elias’ eyelids flew open in shock. With strength that could not possibly be natural, he surged upward to a standing position. Elias lunged towards Jon, but it was too late for him. Jon had already swung the pipe down, aiming straight for the top of his skull._

_-_

Deeply unhelpful. The Archivist had many statements that were deeply unhelpful, usually centering around that man, Jon. He knew they were related in some fashion, or at least knew each other – Jon, him – but, he attached no identity to it. They were as distant from him as a book on a shelf … though one he admittedly read many times.

Of all his duties, ascribing time to things was the most difficult. Had that statement occurred yesterday, a week ago, six months? Usually, the Archivist was adept at signing time based on elements of it – a stopped clock, a calendar, archaic technology, time of the day. There was none of that in there. He was only certain of the location. The Panopticon, below the Institute, still pulsing with the energy that sustained him.

That middle-aged man, the one Jon had called Elias, was dead. The Archivist recalled seeing his body, still rotting there, though he hadn’t had cause to return to the Panopticon for some time. Nobody entered the Institute anymore – and Nobody could leave. The Archivist could be considered as integral to the Archives as the brick and mortar.

He finally reached the end of the bookshelves. There was an empty spot there, on the shelf. The Archivist reached one shaking hand and dragged his cracked knuckles along it. _94 rats, 435 termites, and … zero spiders,_ his mind returned with no small degree of self-satisfaction. _Not in my Institute._

Trudging forward, the Archivist walked outside of the large archway in the central library. The rest of the Institute was in remarkable disrepair. Lights flickered ominously in the hallways; the wallpaper long since peeled away from the corners. Every so often, something would skitter across the floor. Office doors lined the hallways, though the Archivist had no such need for something like an _office._ They were locked, regardless. The breakroom seemed even more like an absurd frivolity, and the smell of rotting consumables had long since ushered him away from it.

The Institute had not always been like this, the Archivist knew. There had been a time when it had been enviable, clean, elegant – even for the 19th century. Then it had changed, and … when had it started to tumble down the precipice of disrepair? As always, his mind returned the statement as if he’d put it on hold.

_“We’ll check in Artifact Storage,” Melanie started. She was wiping blood off of a long metal spike. There was some blood spattered across the front of her face, across her black mirrored glasses, but she did not seem to mind. “Daisy and Basira?”_

_“Tunnels.” Daisy’s voice was no more than a low growl. She had no weapon but her hands. Jon didn’t think she would have a problem, given how her fingers had narrowed to dark-tipped claws. Light hair had sprouted across most of her skin. Jon refused to think the word ‘werewolf’. Basira nodded, tapping her fingers against the butt of the gun strapped to her waist._

_Jon looked over at Martin. Martin, bedraggled. Hadn’t slept since they’d gotten back from Scotland twelve hours ago. Martin, who had nearly been mute with anxiety on the entire train. Martin, watching Jon who was entirely too calm about all of this. Martin, clutching a pipe close against his chest like a lifeline._

_“You and I have the rest of the Institute, then,” Jon remarked, and Martin gave a slow nod before they departed for their search. “We do have it easy. I can’t imagine a recently blinded agent of the Eye would get too far.”_

_Martin wasn’t responding. He was scared – of him, partially, Jon knew. Jon also knew, or rather Knew, that he was feeling guilty for being scared. Stop pretending like Jon’s normal, Martin was telling himself, stop pretending like Jon’s going to make it out of here alive, stop pretending like Jon might not turn into a gigantic eye monster at any minute._

_Jon didn’t blame him for what he was feeling, because he was scared of himself, too. Scared of everything that had just come rushing in, all at once. He didn’t want to turn into anything. He just wanted to be him._

_“You’ve been shot,” Martin eventually complained, as if Jon had stepped on his toe. And Jon had to admit that, yes, he had been shot. And it still stung like hell. “How the_ hell _are you … okay?”_

_Jon looked down at the darkened stain that was already beginning to dry across his shirt. His own blood seeped all the way from his ribcage down to his belt. There was pain, of course, Jon felt another pointed stab of it every time he walked as the bullet rustled around inside him like candy in a pinata. But there was no weakness. Nothing that would prevent him walking. He didn’t even require his goddamn cane anymore._

_Jon’s response was flat. “I’m not human.” He pressed his hand against his stomach. His blood seeped through his fingers. Martin made a noise of distaste and looked away. “Not anymore. We’ve got to keep going.”_

_The corridors stretched on in front of them, and they walked in silence with one another. Jon occasionally got flashes of what Martin was feeling, thinking. He was scared he was going to have to kill Jon with the pipe that he held in his hands, and trying to convince himself that he could do it, if necessary. Jon stopped trying to pry as Martin forced himself to imagine what it would look like, bringing down the pipe on Jon’s head._

_He could hardly blame the poor man. But. Jon didn’t want to have to picture it._

_Still, that little daydream made Jon realize that he, himself had no weapon. Hadn’t even thought to bring the stapler from his office. But it was too late to turn back. He had Martin for protection – and, if he grew so far gone that Martin no longer wanted to protect him, he wouldn’t even fight back._

_“Jon,” Martin eventually mumbled, voice a little hoarse, “I –”_

_“Wait.” A beat. “That door wasn’t there before.” Jon was staring straight ahead, his attention fixed. The corridor ahead branched into a T, except for the door straight ahead of them. That door wasn’t part of the Institute. Not only was it not the familiar painted wood of the Institute, it seemed … out-dated. Old. Very, very old. The paint peeled and the window in the center was yellowed._

_He stepped forward as Martin made a confused sound behind him. “What door?”_

_“The – the door.” Jon gestured towards it. “Here. Obviously.” He reached forward and put his hand on the doorknob. The doorknob was painted the same awful off-blue color as the rest of it, and some paint chips flicked away in his hands. He twisted his entire body back to face Martin, gesturing towards the knob with his other hand. Martin’s expression was full of dumbfoundment. “The_ door, _Martin.”_

_“There’s no door there,” Martin clarified slowly, but then clearly decided to change his tune. “Do you see a door?” He stepped forward and placed his hand –_ through _the door, actually, straight where the window should’ve been as if he were a ghost. Jon raised an eyebrow quizzically._

_Well, he supposed that made sense. A door that only an Eye could see. Martin, for all of his strengths, had never been so connected to the Archives._

“ _What do you bet the chances are that you’re the only one who can go through, too?” Martin’s question was rhetorical … and grim. “A trick? A trap, maybe?”_

_Jon felt the answer resound deep within himself, as if he went down further than blood and bones and muscle. As if, somewhere deep inside himself, there was brick and mortar and … bookshelves. “No,” he rumbled, his fingers closing around the doorknob. It warmed beneath his hand like an old friend. “No. I … something’s different, now.”_

_“This really isn’t the time to be vague.”_

_“The Institute is part of me, now. More. The Archives.” By Martin’s frustrated expression, Jon wasn’t making much sense. Jon sighed, closed his eyes, and began again. Martin deserved explanations as far as Jon could give them. “Now that the world’s ended – ending – I think I’ve come into my abilities, more. The Archives knows what I want. It’s willing to show me whatever I want to know. Including,” Jon gestured towards the door, “How to find Elias.”_

_“Alone.”_

_“Yes.” Jon agreed. “Alone.”_

_They stared at one another. Martin still had the pipe in his hand, held against his broad chest as he looked Jon over. Jon wished it wasn’t this way. The idea of going in there without Martin – without anyone, actually, just him and the other monster of the Archives – wasn’t … good. Wasn’t good at all. He was scared. Christ, why did he always have to be scared? The inside of his body burned and the outside of his body was crawling with_ nerves, _of all things. Jon self-consciously itched at his forearm._

_“You, um,” Jon mumbled, “You keep searching. Find the others. Melanie and Georgie, probably, I think Basira and Daisy have themselves well enough handled.” The doorknob twisted under his grip, and he audibly heard the door unlock. Martin heard the sound and jumped. An odd sight, Jon supposed, a man unlocking an invisible door._

_Martin’s hand shot out to wrap around Jon’s wrist, pulling him back from it. Jon looked at him with a confused expression but released the doorknob for the time being to face Martin. Martin thrust the pipe into his hand with enough force that Jon actually took a step back. “Take this,” he requested, but he didn’t let go of it just yet. “Just in case he’s in there.”_

_“Ha. Seems rather brutish, after everything, isn’t it?” Jon’s laugh was dry, but his fingers closed around the pipe nonetheless. Martin still wasn’t letting go. He was looking at Jon with an intense urgency, a thousand thoughts dancing behind his wide eyes. They hadn’t enough time, Jon thought to himself sadly. There just hadn’t been enough time. “Are you positive? You …”_

_“Can handle myself,” Martin finished for him. “You, on the other hand, clearly need some help.” The smirk Jon gave him was rather involuntary. “I’m not going to look for Melanie and Georgie, they’ve – they’ve got themselves. I’m going to wait here until you come back out, so you ought to … you ought to come back out.”_

_Absurd, Jon wanted to say. Ridiculous. Just this side of insidiously, dangerously, stupidly sentimental, but he wasn’t going to argue with Martin. If he was going to live through this, then the first face he wanted to see was Martin Blackwood. He had always been selfish and he was willing to take advantage of Martin’s loyalty one last time._

_“Okay.” Jon’s voice was so hollow that it was almost inaudible._

_Martin’s fingers released the pipe, and Jon took it. The weight made him lean forward a little, and Martin put a hand on his shoulder to stop him._

_It was hardly the romantic, slightly slobbery kiss in film finales that always sounded like bored humming and chewing gum. Jon didn’t think either of them had the energy for that, given it was the end of the world and they were both a little peaky._

_Still, Martin leaned forward to gently impress their lips together and Jon’s hand rested on his chest just for a moment. Martin tasted of mint. It would be enough. “I’ll see you later,” he promised. His hand released Martin and he put it back on the doorknob._

_When he opened it, he was hardly surprised to see who was through the door._

-

And then, the Archivist noted, he fully took on his form. Martin Blackwood, that man, waited outside the door for some time. He cried. He was led away by the former agent of the Slaughter and the one touched by the End. He cried all night and fell asleep in the small hours of the morning, but when he woke up, the world had changed back and Martin Blackwood cried no more.

A growl sounded deep in the Archivist’s throat. It couldn’t escape, of course. The Archivist had had no mouth for some time. Instead, it rumbled and died in his throat, sounding like a choked groan. He shuffled forward at a slow limp, rounding a corner as he went towards Artifact Storage. His hair was still gathered in front of his face, but it didn’t matter. The Archivist had so very many eyes.

Not all of them opened at once. They opened and closed languidly, seeing things far beyond the small walls of the Institute. All of them were the same color – some bloodshot, some rapid, some slow. The Archivist groaned again, making another mummified sound in the otherwise silent Institute.

Fantastic. The door was there, already opened to Artifact Storage. Good. The Archives knew not to make things difficult for him – difficult to open a door when one’s hands were covered in eyes. For one thing, it made a squishing noise that even the Archivist found ghastly.

He limped inside. Tape recorders seemed to congregate there. The Archivist had not had opportunity to use them in some time, with the aforementioned lack of mouth, but he occasionally preferred to listen to the statements. The recorders always seemed to know what he wanted to hear.

Other Entities sang to him in here, almost as if tempting him. The Archivist brushed the tip of one dark finger along the edge of a vase, hearing the Vast whistle its sad tune to him in a neverending echo. The drum of the Hunt beat from somewhere in the Archival depths, but the other Entities had never held any allure to him.

The Archivist groaned again in response, shutting the eyes in his sockets. A wordless call for all of them to _shut up for a minute._ All of the world stretched out in his mind, knowing all things occurring and had occurred. It was too much to focus on, and the Archivist could not form a connection to anyone in particular. They were all so small. Humans were all _so_ small.

_96 rats, 513 termites, 0 spiders in my Institute,_ the Archivist thought to himself again, and that granted him some comfort. He stood still. The eyes on his neck noticed the bloodstain across the wall and a large leather chair. Oh, _yes,_ that was before. Before the strange door, before the goodbye, before ending the life of Jonah Magnus. How did it go?

-

_“Oh, look,” Elias crooned as they came, six pairs of stomping feet into Artifact Storage, “It’s rather about time you all showed up.” Their former boss was lounging on a plush armchair, his legs crossed as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “Have you seen what’s happening outside?”_

_Daisy’s growl cut him off short as she surged forward. Jon felt the Hunt well and alive in her. Georgie was the one to reach forward and pull her back by her upper arm. “Chase him and he’s only going to go further into Storage,” she warned, and while Daisy glared down at her darkly … but she remained planted still to the spot, even if it hurt._

_“How are we feeling, Jon?” Elias asked, turning his gaze towards the dark-haired man. Martin was partially supporting him, had been since they’d stepped off the train and Jon had nearly fallen on his face. It wasn’t that Jon was feeling weak, precisely, but dizzy … oh,_ yes. _Drowning in information. Being in the crowded train station had been hellish. Even now, with seven people in the room, Jon struggled to maintain his focus. They had left his cane in Scotland. Although Jon could hardly see straight, could hardly get his mind to quiet, he found that he no longer needed it to support himself._

_There had been a minor breakdown in the cab ride over and Martin, fear-stricken as he was, had tried to help. It hadn’t done much; Jon had started to compulsively list all of Martin’s former addresses before he put a hand over his mouth to stop himself. Tears had escaped from his eyes when he saw Martin look so scared. Of him. Of him, if all people. “It’s a bit much at first, isn’t it?”_

_“How do we reverse this?” Basira stepped forward, withdrawing the gun from her hip. “Kill you, and be done with it?”_

_“If you all want to die, yes. Well, except for you two, Ms. Barker and Ms. King, freelancers that you are. The others … well, that employment contract really is a stinger, isn’t it?”_

_“Lie. He’s lying.”_

_All heads swiveled to face Jon and his pained groan. Jon pushed himself off of Martin and stepped forward, staggering towards Elias. “That … that nonsense about the employment contracts sealing our lives to this place. Bullshit. All of it.”_

_Elias’ eyes widened somewhat, and Jon swore he saw calculations going on in his head before he settled into a pleased smirk. “Look at you. Ever the Archivist, aren’t we? It’s impressive. But,” he sighed as he pushed himself up, “I really do have places to be getting to. As much as I would love to give you the Beholding orientation.”_

_“There’s nothing keeping us from killing you. And even if you’re –” Martin couldn’t find the word to describe it, and Jon couldn’t blame him. Martin reached down on the floor and picked up an old pipe. He held it as one would a baseball bat. “We’re not letting you leave here.”_

_Jon nodded in agreement. That would be an ironic death for their boss, wouldn’t it? Beaten to death with a pipe._

_“And what,” Elias continued, “Do you think will happen to Jon if I die?”_

_“I don’t know.” Martin’s voice was firm as he gripped the pipe even tighter. Jon didn’t know, either, and the idea was horrifying. It would be horrifying even if it was simply death. It wouldn’t simply be death. Jon was never that lucky. He would probably become more of a monster – was there a way for him to become_ more _of a monster?_

_He sidestepped behind Martin, trying to keep himself upright. He was getting stronger here, little by little. “But that doesn’t change anything.”_

_“How tragic. Two star-crossed lovers. Do you think he’ll blame you for the agony you put him through? It will hurt, I promise you that. Hurts very, very badly, the change.” Elias uncrossed his legs from the chair and scoffed. “Please. You’d probably cry all night long.”_

_“I’m right here,” Jon remarked in a cross voice. “And I – “ What was he going to say, exactly? ‘I give permission for you to indirectly kill me, darling’? “Martin knows the right thing to do.” And to that, Martin nodded. “Everyone else does, too.”_

_Basira stepped forward in front of Jon, causing him to take a step back. “Enough of this.” She raised her gun at Elias and then several things happened in quick succession._

_One, Elias suddenly withdrew a firearm from the inside of his own jacket. He missed Basira by barely an inch, but it caused her to reel back. Her shot went wide, but Elias’ bullet found an unintended target. The bullet impacted Jon instead, burrowing right in his stomach. Jon could feel the bullet rip into him. Blinding starbursts of pain, an absolute certainty that he would die. Jon let out a agonized groan deep in his throat as he doubled over, arms clutched around his midsection. The arms grew wet with blood. He wanted to pass out. No, he didn’t want to pass out – in that moment, he wanted to die from the pain. But there was no weakness in his movements. Jon didn’t feel faint in the slightest._

_Two, Melanie launched forward as Elias’ shot rang out. She had something that glinted in the overhead lights of Artifact Storage. She plunged it into his chest, ripping his skin like so many loose stitches. The sound wasn’t jarringly dissimilar. Melanie grunted, clearly displeased at having missed her mark, before Georgie moved forward to wrap her hands around her girlfriend’s wrist. The awl was plunged down yet again, this time finding its mark in Elias’ eyesocket. The sound was less of a rip and more of a squish. Elias howled in pain and reached for his bloody eye, before the awl was plunged a third time into the other one. As Elias screamed, the lights in Artifact Storage flickered before going out entirely._

_Third, Martin dropped the pipe on the ground. It rang out against the smooth concrete. Martin’s arm was around him, blindly groping for his neck, his face, his hands. Jon couldn’t see much in this darkness, and he supposed Martin couldn’t, either. “Jon,” Martin pleaded him as his voice treaded on hysteria. The grimly confident mask he’d been wearing in front of Elias fell, and Jon only saw a man who was terrified of losing the one in front of him. “Jon, please, talk to me, please please please oh_ god –”

He has witnessed you being shot, _Jon told himself._ Might want to cheer him up a little.

_“’m okay,” Jon grunted. Martin’s hand was pressed flat against his stomach, coating it in Jon’s own blood. It made the pain worse, but Jon supposed he was applying pressure … if that would even do anything, anymore. He reached down to cover Martin’s hand with his own. Covered in blood, Martin’s hand was warm and reassuring, even now. “’m okay, Martin.”_

_And he was. The pain was already starting to dissipate, even as Jon leaned up to his full height again. Martin’s hand left his stomach._ That’s not normal, _Jon thought to himself miserably._ That’s decidedly inhuman. God, can you even die anymore? _As he pondered his humanity, the lights of Artifact Storage flickered back on._

_“Motherfucker,” Basira hissed to herself. “He just disappeared.”_

_At that, Jon and Martin looked up. Indeed, the chair that had formerly been the seat for Elias Bouchard was now empty, though thoroughly soaked in blood. Melanie was standing near it, an awl clutched in her hand in a death grip. Blood was splattered across her face, her glasses, her sleek purple-dyed hair. Georgie was wiping her hand off on her jumper. “He won’t have gotten far,” Georgie remarked. “Melanie did get him in both eyes.”_

_A blinded Eye. How appropriate. Daisy looked down the halls to Artifact Storage, head swaying from side to side, and Jon could see her mentally weighing running down there and trying to capture him. But Jon could hear no footsteps, no frantic running of a man desperate to escape. “We’ve got to regroup,” she uttered gutturally, turning around towards the door. “Jon. Can you walk?”_

_Unfortunately so, Jon found that he could stand on his own two feet. Being in the Institute was making him stronger. Hell, wasn’t it fifteen minutes ago when he’d had to lean on Martin to enter the front door? It was like the Institute was recharging him. Even as he straightened his back, Martin’s hand rested on his hip in worry. “Yeah,” he sighed. Looking down, he saw the blood starting to drip from underneath his jumper and land on his shoes._ Your blood, _Jon thought to himself with a strange detachment. “Yeah. Let’s get going.”_

_There was no time to ponder any of this. There was no time to abashedly cling to humanity when the world was ending outside. There was no time to be selfish, there was no time to be cowardly, and there was no time to be weak._

_They had to track Elias down or die trying. Looking down at his bullet wound, Jon was starting to doubt his ability to do the latter._

_Which would make it much easier to do the former._

_-_

Such anger. The Archivist made a disapproving noise. There was never any such violence in his Institute. Indeed, there wasn’t anybody to be violent against. He had been the only one there for some time, hadn’t he? He looked down at the blood on the floor, on the chair, spattered over his own body. Blood was messy. Thoroughly not his area. Knowing things was not precisely painless, but there was much less foolish mess involved.

He slowly trod down the corridors, every step louder than the sound of fabric brushing against stone. It was colder here, the Archivist noted. Very few Entities dealt in warmth. There were certain artifacts by the Desolation, _yes,_ but they only burned. He had once, back in his more desperate times, tried to touch it to warm himself. He’d only burned an eye on his hand. And he had cried from the pain as he clutched it to his chest and cried out for that Martin fellow and for his grandmother and for death itself. How young he had once been.

That man from that memory was like him, the Archivist realized. There were several striking similarities. They were wearing the same clothing, for example. Dark red blood, long since crusty and dry, covered the front of his shirt. But that man only had two eyes, so they could not have been the same person – even the same sort of being.

Hang on. There was something. An itch. A scratch. His eyes were restless against his skin.

The Archivist leaned against the wall of Artifact Storage, his hair and ear pressed against the cold stone. Something was new, here. There were still zero spiders, and several hundred termites, and … many more rats, coming in. 104. 107. 111. They were all surging towards something, furious and intent.

All of the Archivist’s eyes opened. Dark brown irises and pinprick pupils stared in all directions, flicking rapidly across their white sclera. The Archivist’s mouth pulled into a tight frown as he watched _EVERYTHING,_ and particularly things going on in _his_ Archive. 

\--

_“Go on, go on,” a gossamer-light voice rasped. She held a rat in her hands. She did not often go in for rats, but spiders hardly held the same potential. “Find the wires. I’ve lit them up for you, you see? Find the wires and chew, chew, chew.”_

_The rat stared at her curiously. It was not frightened by the way a portion of her skull seemed to be missing._

_It would find the wires. And it would chew, chew, chew._

\--

Some of the Archivist’s eyes snapped shut in alarm. _No,_ no. How had the Mother of Puppets entered without him realizing? He had _always_ been on the lookout for spiders, though he supposed – well. He supposed that more things than spiders fell into webs. But he had missed her, and he’d been so very foolish.

It was too late. Too late to flush out the rats from the Institute. Given more time, the Archivist could have hunted through all of Artifact Storage to fight toe-to-toe with them … but they had already infected the place in search of their prize. The Archivist nevertheless tried to hurry to the door, even if he couldn’t manage more than a stagger.

And, just like that, one of them found their mark. The rats did not stop.

The fire was starting small. It was in a small corner in what had once been a collection of employee desks in the library. But the Archivist could not stop it, had no hope of stopping it, was nothing more than a collection of eyes and skin and slow, shuffling movements. And then there were more fires, starting in the library and Artifact Storage and the dilapidated breakroom and the back entrance and the and the and the and the. So many more. A terrified choke of a groan bubbled and died in his throat.

He shuffled quickly, as fast as he could. The fire would overwhelm the place. The fire would overwhelm him. What was an Archivist without an Archives? It was all that he was, as much a part of him as his body, and to be without it … would he simply cease to exist? Was this what death was?

The Mother of Puppets did not like him, the Archivist knew. The Eye watched too much for someone who lived so much of their life in shadow. The only use the Web had for him was to leech information, but at the risk of being discovered by the Eye. And, with him gone, they could continue their ministrations undeterred. Or perhaps there was another reason altogether, but in the end, it mattered little. The Archivist moaned in helplessness.

Leaving Artifact Storage was easy. The Archivist pushed his way down the hall. He smelled smoke, heard and felt and _saw_ the fire flickering upstairs. His home was burning. _He_ was burning. It hurt him, hurt him so badly that more of his eyes shut tight in fear. His essence was being torn out of him. Some of the eyes seemed to burrow inside of him, leaving no more than normal brown flesh behind.

A hand, thoroughly without eyes, found the banister of the stairwell. It had been so very long since he had walked up the stairs. The Archivist’s fingers closed around it as he started to pull himself up. It was still slow, a slow amble, and he heard a floor give way somewhere nearby. The fire was picking up quickly. The amount of rats was beginning to decrease, _94, 92, 89 –_ until the number became tenuous and untenable. The Archivist could not _feel_ his Institute any longer, the longer it burned.

He mounted the stairs and approached the library. The countless, daunting scores of bookcases in front of him, all dark and shadowy and nameless. There was light, now, light attacking the books and sending them to ashes. The fire jumped from shelf to shelf, and it only took seconds before the entire bookcase was bursting into light and flame.

For the first time in months, the Archivist drew in breath through a mouth. It came out as a gasp and tasted of acrid burning paper. His fingers reached up to brush along the dry, cracked lips that were his own – what was happening to him? This _transformation?_

The Archivist couldn’t breathe. He turned from the aflamed room and went for the main hall. There was a door, there, a door that had not been opened in some time. The door that looked over the outside world. It was not that it scared him. Quite the contrary, the door itself and the world outside was mundane. Occasionally, he would open it just to stare out of it and find that it was still absolutely useless to go outside when he knew everything already. Several theories had erupted in London about the specter that haunted the strange old building.

Now, though, the Archivist was being faced with little choice if he did not want to be burned alive any more than he already was. He did not know if he could survive without his Institute, but there was little choice. His fingers wrapped around the doorknob and pulled it open. Outside, a London wrapped in midday clouds greeted him. They threatened rain. The Archivist found with a start that he did not know anything out there, anymore, could not simply reach out and _feel_ the world around him. There were people outside, dozens of them, scores of them, but he did not know them. They loomed in the corners of his vision like ghosts.

Less pressing than the fire. The Archivist heard the library finally collapse behind him. A burst of scalding hot air hit his back and the Archivist groaned in pain, the air leaving his lungs, before bustling forward into the sidewalk and then to the street. He heard the crowd let out a ‘ah’ of surprise – not for the strange man stumbling out the front door, but because of the fireball that had just burst into the sky.

He only had two eyes, and both of them were closed as he walked through the crowds. He felt people bump into him, but they paid him no mind. The Archivist – no, because how could he be the Archivist when the Archives was in ashes – pressed his palms against his eyes. The flood of information, usually constantly interfering with any semblance of rational thought, slowed to a trickle. And then to a drip.

Now, now, in his mind, he could notice shapes beneath the floodwaters. Things, familiar and innate and, while murky, so very, very _his._

Jon pulled his hands away from his eyes. Everything hurt and he burned so badly. Everything was warm. And _itchy._ His leg, one much moreso than the other, started to _scream_ at him in pain. Jon quickly shifted his weight to the other as best as he could, ambling at a limp. He cleared his throat and almost reeled back in agony from the sensation. Lights and metal and horns blared around him as Jon looked around, confused and lost. Where was he? Who was he? Where had he come from?

Jon turned around to face the Magnus Institute. The building stood wrapped in flames. It would get swallowed, eventually, be nothing more than ash and rubble on the ground. The more it got torn apart, however, the more he was starting to feel … himself. As a separate, sentient person. Still, it was not much, and Jon could not manage much more than a squint and a shuffle off further in the street. He had no destination in mind, and he groaned in pain. Everything was steaks of color and vibrations around him, and really, wasn’t that everything in the world anyway? Just streaks of color? Vibrations?

A shape was approaching him. A person. A human. A human man. Jon blinked at him, as the creature spoke _words_ to him, words that he understood but did not process. The man’s hand was extended out to him, as if he planned on _touching_ him. He raised one shaking arm to try to explain – _please, don’t approach ­–_ before something else popped into his mind. The thing could’ve been a name or an adjective or an interjection, but regardless, it was _associated_ with this shape.

“M-Martin,” Jon heaved out in a rasp.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Depression, Eye-related body horror

Someone was watching him.

It would be reasonable to assume that, as the dreams had been going on for months, Martin should’ve gotten used to it by now. After all, the monster’s actions rarely changed up. Martin would just be going about his dream, in whatever form that took, when he would see _him_ staring at him from across the street, across the house, across the room. But, the first time or the hundredth time, Martin would nonetheless feel scared of the monster.

Perhaps once a month or so, Martin would be _absolutely_ certain the being was in his room when he woke up, continuing his ceaseless watching. He’d wake up and feel that he could see him, the many-eyed blob, just watching from the corner of his bedroom. Martin would freeze stiff with fear, but even that he had seen a half a dozen times by now. Then he’d turn on the light and realize it was a coat, a shadow, his own overactive imagination.

The being never _hurt_ him, neither in the dreams or when Martin was awake. Never even made any threats to. There was no reason to be frightened of it other than _it looked scary._ Martin nevertheless tried to convince himself that sometimes fear was simply instinct and not an indication of cowardice.

Reoccurring dreams were not unusual for Martin. Ever since he was a child, every once in a while, he’d get a dream that he was caught in a gigantic spiderweb. A dream dictionary had once told him that that was a sign of anxiety, and Martin figured that sounded about right. Sometimes, he swore he heard a voice while he was stuck in the web – but he hadn’t had the spider dream for a long, long time. Years.

Before he saw the eye-monster, the dream had been unremarkable. He’d been in the flat where he’d grown up, with his mother. The main hallway of their flat, specifically, except the hallway had been very long. There was the same awful flowery wallpaper there; he had put it up himself as a teenager. It was back when he’d first started to transition. His mother hadn’t taken it exceptionally well, and Martin supposed he had irrationally tried to earn her approval. A sort of Mother’s Day present. It was of daffodils.

Daffodils, extending from floor to ceiling. Fifteen and a half daffodils made the entire height of the wall. It wasn’t like Martin usually noticed that sort of thing, but he’d spent way too much time in that hallway after things grew tense with his mother. She usually didn’t know he was there. And she barely cared about the wallpaper.

Now, the hallway was much too long. Martin kept wandering it. His fingers would brush against his door handle, but it would be locked, and he would try his mother’s doorhandle, but it would be locked. Martin nevertheless kept walking and trying familiar-but-not-the-same doors before he realized that there were definitely eyes on him.

He stopped in the wooden hallway and turned around, confronting the person staring at him down the hall.

Perhaps ‘person’ was too strong a word, because Martin had never seen a person that looked like that.

“Forgot the key in my other trousers,” Martin joked to the many-eyed monster nervously. He had long black-and-silver hair that covered his face and grew all the way down to his waist. It was greasy and had separated itself into strange matted tufts, but Martin couldn’t see the face behind the hair. He was frail and seemed to walk only with serious effort and a noticeable limp. Now, though, this creature just stood. And watched. With all of his eyes. Large brown eyes flicked back and forth across their irises, plastered over his body like so many stickers. Every so often, two of the smaller eyes would quiver against one another and form one larger one, new and wet. Like always, Martin felt a shiver run up his spine. The creature had no mouth.

He’d never put much stock in dreams and what they meant. He’d dreamed far too much when he was younger, fanciful and impulsive, but Martin Blackwood had now recently entered his _mid thirties,_ damn it, and some things had to be put away.

Unfortunately. This creature hadn’t received that particular memo. Martin had started to call him the Eyeclops, if only because attributing a human name like Jeremy or ~~Jon~~ or Scott seemed wrong. The Eyeclops was breathing heavily through his nose as he watched him, chest and shoulders heaving with the effort. His regular eyes, the ones in their sockets, blinked behind his hair, but Martin was not close enough to see their color. He would not be getting _close_ enough to see their color.

The Eyeclops never hurt him. He told himself that, over and over. There would be no pain. Martin knew he wouldn’t even approach him. But Martin didn’t like being the only person in this dream world, with that _thing_ at the other end of the hallway. His hands occasionally twitched that way and that, covered in eyes, reminding Martin of a snake flicking its tongue out. Martin realized, not for the first time, that one brown hand was covered in finger-shaped burns. The eyes there seemed more irritated. ~~I hope it doesn’t hurt still, Jon,~~ Martin didn’t think.

“Are you going to help, then?” Martin asked. He gave another door a tug and found it locked, before moving onto the next. Maybe it was an exercise in futility, but he wasn’t going to just _not do anything._ Accordingly, the Eyeclops shuffled a few steps forward in long coat. He was holding his hands unnaturally, with slightly hooked fingers, so that the eyes in his palms could look out towards him. “Figured not. I imagine trying to open a doorknob with eyes in your hands hurts.”

Martin sidestepped down the hallway. He didn’t like turning his back to the Eyeclops, because he swore he could feel the eyes – all of them – burrowing into his back. Once, he’d woken up consumed with the idea that he’d grown more eyes, himself, and had embarrassingly gone into the mirror to reassure himself that no, he just had the two, and they were perfectly pleasant and gray and a _bit_ dim-looking.

The Eyeclops made a low groan. It was more of a gurgle, deep inside his throat. The sound couldn’t escape, instead dying somewhere in what he imagined was the man’s voicebox. Where a mouth ought to be, Jon still had most of the lower half of his face covered with the same small oak-colored eyes that covered the rest of his body. With the streak of eyes across his cheeks and chin, Martin couldn’t help but visualize it as a bandage. Or a gag.

~~Come on, you went to Oxford. They don’t teach you to use your words at Oxford?~~

“I know, the weather really _has_ been awful lately,” Martin joked stupidly again as he tried another door. He hated when the Eyeclops made sounds. They always sounded tortured and disgusting, and he didn’t know _why_ he was always there. Always in his dreams. Every night.

There had been an attempt to see a therapist, but Martin hadn’t been confident enough to describe this creature in detail. Just ‘nightmares’ on the intake form. They’d given him some things for anxiety and a recommendation for serotonin and sent him on his way, but the nightmares hadn’t stopped and Martin figured that it was just something he would have to live with. After all, perhaps it was simply due to stress? 

Though, in the last six months, he’d been incredibly stressed and not-at-all stressed and every shade in between. The Eyeclops was constant through all of them, whether he were watching Martin trying to escape drowning or having a pleasant dream about flowers.

There was no sound behind the doors. Not the rattling of his mother’s breathing, not Martin gingerly plucking away at a guitar, not the howling of the wind. Martin looked down at the hallway, wondering if it was _truly_ getting smaller or if he just felt the walls closing in on himself. He turned back towards the Eyeclops, wondering. The Eyeclops was taking a few steps forward, and had placed his knuckles on the daffodil-covered wall to steady himself. A few strands of shiny silvery hair hung from them.

“You must have other people to watch,” Martin advised again. “I’m really not very interesting.” And, it would be nice to actually have a dream without a cold sweat starting to drip down his back. He always woke up sweaty, too, like he’d just run for miles. And he hadn’t felt well-rested in a … very, very long time.

Oh. One of the doors up ahead was open. Martin could see white light shining out of it, but he couldn’t see inside. He looked back towards the Eyeclops. The groaning in the bottom of his throat had turned inquisitive in nature. There was never the sense that they were on the same side, of course, but Martin took some relief in knowing that the Eyeclops didn’t know anything, either. “After you?” He asked, giving his hand a little flutter towards the open door. The Eyeclops didn’t accept.

Stepping forward, Martin stood at the edge of the open door and looked in. And down. He was a half a mile above a London street. Below him, a building was on fire, and god help him, Martin _knew_ that building. He passed it on a weekly basis, at least, with this current job he was in. It was older, and about three stories, but he couldn’t recall what the _name_ was.

Either way, it didn’t much matter, because that building was crumbling to pieces below him. He watched as the internal structure started to crumple against the raging inferno and collapsed, leaving no more than ash on the ground. If people did work there, Martin hoped that everyone was okay, but he didn’t see anyone escaping the flames. It was _hot,_ too, Martin could feel the warm wind get buffeted up into his face.

Martin was starting to get a little vertigo from leaning over the edge of the open door. He braced himself on the doorframe. As he did so, he saw that the Eyeclops loomed over his shoulder him – Martin could feel his cold exhaled air against his back. Actually, he could feel that the man’s body itself was exuding a chilling frigidity. He smelled of old dirt, like a crypt recently opened.

The Eyeclops was _right there_ and he was lingering just an inch or so behind Martin’s shoulder . He had never been that close to him before, and Christ, he _smelled,_ and his face was pockmarked in a dozen-and-a-half places, and seeing several dozen eyes up close was more terrifying than he thought it would be.

“ ~~What are you doing, Jon!?”~~ Martin didn’t shout – instead, he yelped and leapt away – and through the open door he went.

Martin heard the whoosh of the air ringing in his ears, and the warm air of the inferno below him stroke against his back. He looked up to see the open door, still hanging there in the sky. And the Eyeclops was peering out. His greasy hair hung down and away from his body as he watched Martin fall to his death. Martin watched as the Eyeclops was extending a hand out the door – at first, Martin thought he was offering to help, even if it was too late, but as the Eyeclops swiveled his palm around to face him, Martin realized he just wanted to see with more of his eyes.

-

“ _God,”_ Martin groaned in his bed. Covered in sweat, as he expected, and feeling like he hadn’t slept a wink. He laid there for some time to stare at the ceiling. At least the sensation of being watched was well enough gone. Martin rolled over to stare at his alarm clock. Thank god for days off, because he would have been _late as hell._

Martin Blackwood worked three jobs, at the moment. Sometimes that number would dwindle to two, in which case Martin worried about paying rent, and sometimes the number would swell to four, in which case Martin worried about dying from a heart attack before 40. London was an expensive city to live in and even more expensive to leave, though, so it would do.

Currently, he worked at a café, he worked as a barista, and he did night security after the sun went down. The last one was a bit of a surprise for Martin (and probably for anyone who knew him, if he were being honest), because Martin was not so much a security enforcer as he was tall and big, but that didn’t really seem to make a difference to his employers.

Despite all that, he felt guilty for having a day off. He tried to cast that out of his mind as he prepared himself for the morning: a shower and a shave. Back when Martin had started to grow facial hair, he had delighted in every single root that sprouted from his face. Still, it had become readily apparent that it didn’t … quite suit him. ‘Peach fuzz’ was too kind of a word. Looked a bit like he harassed women over the Internet, so Martin tried to stay clean shaven if he had his druthers. He _liked_ to shave, and he didn’t like how facial hair looked on him, so it seemed to work out exceptionally well. Even now, he ran his fingers over his cheeks and felt prickles catch at his fingers.

Martin reached for one of his curls and pulled it, extending it just past his chin. That would need to get cut, soon, maybe snipped to above his ears. It was tempting to spend his morning neatly trimming off his split ends, but his hands didn’t feel quite steady after last night’s nightmare. That could wait, then.

He made eggs and coffee in contemplative silence. The flat was rather small, but it wasn’t like Martin had any people over … nearly ever, in his memory. He didn’t work enough in any one job to make lasting friendships with his coworkers there (at least, that was what he had told himself, that he wasn’t just _that_ unlikable), and he worked too much to make friends doing hobbies.

When it came to family, his mum had died over a year ago. She had had a rather large family, but after Martin’s father had left, she had shrunk away from them. Embarrassment and shame, mostly. Martin had always privately thought that that was stupid, but – from what he could tell of his mother, at least – that entire side was intensely religious. He was pretty certain that his mother had never formally divorced his father for that reason. Still, he recalled having the funeral, and he had been frustratingly unable to reach out to any of his mother’s family. The funeral had just been him and a few old friends of hers from the home.

It wasn’t that Martin _disliked_ people. He liked them a lot, actually, and wanted to be liked in return even more. He just supposed he wasn’t _good_ at speaking with them. Dealing with them. Forming lasting contacts with them. They spoke so fondly of their pasts and families and friends and experiences, and Martin …

Martin had long been wavering from ‘half-heartedly considering’ to ‘being totally convinced’ that he had depression. Not only did he fall under most of the symptoms on the website, he had noted that difficulties with memory was one of the more underreported symptoms. And _that_ would make sense for him, Martin considered.

The past six months were fine-ish. Not much had changed in his personal life – bouncing from job to job, let go due to money difficulties within the company or from being fired because of his obligations to his _other_ job, go home, eat egg and coffee, repeat. He didn’t remember much of it, but Martin figured that there wasn’t much to remember.

Before that was even more of a haze. Martin dimly recalled working in a … a library? And an office. And perhaps in some tunnels or caves or something. But he couldn’t recall the name of it, nor the address, nor what he had actually done there. He’d worked there for a few years, and had left for some reason. But beyond that, nothing. He had no friends from that time, evidently, nobody who could jog his memory to remind him.

The idea that he’d just forgotten several years of his life so casually had _deeply_ mortified him, so he’d never brought it up to anyone.

Besides. It wasn’t like anyone would _care,_ really. It was his problem, wasn’t it. His life to forget. His loss.

He finished his eggs and coffee before pushing the plate to the side. There were a few other dishes in the sink that Martin hadn’t gotten around to motivating himself to touch, so he thought he ought to take advantage of this momentary urge and started to scrub them clean.

Even now, doubt had its teeth in him. Perhaps he wasn’t _really_ depressed, was he? After all, it wasn’t like he lost his job over it, some people did that. It wasn’t like he cried every night over it. Part of him actually _liked_ being alone – he told people as much. No, he didn’t have a boyfriend or anything, because having a live-in around just seemed like an awful amount of fussy work, didn’t it? Not worth the effort, he would laugh.

He just. He just didn’t feel a thing sometimes. Most of the time. No ambitions, really, no real _hobbies,_ just .. work and sleep, work and sleep. But perhaps that was just him. Growing up weird, or never getting educated, or whatever, maybe it was just his own fault and not something any pill or psychiatrist could fix.

He tried to think of a non-work person he had had an actual honest-to-god conversation with in the past week. The past _two_ weeks, even. Just as Martin was about to resign himself that the only way his body would ever be found would be the neighbors complaining about the smell, he remembered what had happened last Wednesday.

His neighbors had accidentally locked themselves out of their flat. They weren’t next-door neighbors, not exactly: Melanie and Georgie were four doors down. However, it had been nearly midnight and Martin had heard them slamming and complaining at their door. A classic domestic case of ‘I-thought-you-had-the-keys-I-thought- _you-_ had-the-keys’ that Martin had never personally experienced, but it’d woken him up from his Eyeclops-related nightmare. He figured that it’d woken up most of the floor.

Either way, he had stumbled out in his pajamas. Nobody else had come out. Georgie had started to apologize profusely for waking him, to which Martin quietly asked what was the matter. They answered him. Martin had paused, wondering whether to out himself as That Weird Neighbor, before he quietly asked if they had a bobby pin and a paper clip.

It wasn’t that his mum _locked_ him out, _really,_ she’d never do anything that monstrous. It was just that sometimes she’d order Martin out – _I don’t want to see your face anymore,_ _bałwan, get out of the flat –_ and their lock was the sort that locked behind them, so she didn’t mean it, really. Still, that made him very good at picking open the lock when necessary.

They did, as it happened, have a bobby pin and paper clip. Martin took both gratefully, got on his knees in his pajamas, and made polite conversation.

Georgie Barker was a librarian at a little institution, though she had went to Oxford originally. She seemed to know quite a bit about everything, and Martin feebly had a discussion about his favorite poets with her (though, at that time of night, Martin wasn’t able to manage anything more than ‘Aw, _Long-Legged Fly?_ So good!’). Martin politely sidestepped the question about where he’d gone to University and glanced over at the other woman.

Georgie’s arm was around her waist affectionately, and she’d occasionally turn her head to face her while speaking. Melanie King’s hair was shot through with stripes of violet purple. “Hey, we match,” he joked to the woman after a moment’s silence, lightly wiggling his own purple fingernails at her. She didn’t react, didn’t even look down at his hand. The penny dropped.

Martin dissolved into mumbled apologies as he focused quite intently on the situation at hand. After Melanie reassured him that it was fine, people sort of expected the stereotypical black glasses on blind people, she revealed more information about herself. Melanie King was a freelance writer (Martin felt a stab of envy) _and,_ she added with a touch of flirtation, Georgie Barker’s agent. That made Georgie alternatively blush and laugh.

The two had a podcast together, _What the Ghost?_ that Martin had never heard of. Martin had lied and pretended that he had heard of it but never got around to listening, really, but he’d definitely put them on when he had a moment. He did have an interest in the supernatural, after all, though enough creepy crawlies (creepy stare-ies?) haunted his dream that he didn’t actively seek them out in media.

He hadn’t said much about himself. They asked him, of course, but Martin rarely answered the questions directly. Shortly after, the door had swung open. Georgie had proclaimed Martin to be a hero and a saint among men, Melanie had quietly thanked him and went into the flat. Martin had gone to bed feeling rather good about himself, for once.

He _had_ looked up _What the Ghost?._ He’d look up a few of their most famous episodes, Martin promised himself, and when he ran into them in the hallway later, he’d remark on it. Perhaps have an extended conversation about it. Perhaps they’d exchange numbers, because neighbors really should have one another’s numbers, _really,_ what if they got locked out again? And then, he could genuinely say he was friends with someone as an early-thirties adult in London.

In the end, Martin listened to every episode of _What the Ghost?_ Partly because it was interesting, partly because he wasn’t exactly sure if they had what could be called a ‘famous’ episode. After hours and hours of listening to Georgie (and later, additionally Melanie’s voice), Martin started to feel a bit like a stalker. When he next saw Georgie and Melanie in the hall, Martin had turned the other way to avoid them.

Embarrassing. And also, Martin failing miserably in making friends, but what else was new, _really?_

After finishing up the dishes, Martin shook his head to shake out the negative thoughts. _A bit of sun,_ he thought to himself. _A bit of sun will do you some good. Vitamin D and all that._ He flicked his hands dry and reached for his mobile. Well, perhaps he wouldn’t be getting any sun that day. Martin distracted himself with the news for a few minutes, before landing on an article about the rise of anti-homeless architecture in London. It led on Martin clicking onto a few more and reading them while putting on his coat and shoes. Head full of negative thoughts again, Martin finally went outside and stuffed his phone into his pocket.

_It’s going to be okay,_ Martin told himself, attempting to be rational. _Look, not that you’re glad mum’s gone, but now you’re totally a free man. A bachelor on the town. You’ve got a life of potential ahead of you._ Except the life of potential really felt more like a well at the moment, one he couldn’t pull himself out of.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt so lonely in his life, trudging down the busy London streets, rubbing elbows with people. Martin tried to make small consolations to himself. _Go home, look at local community events in the area, look up trans community groups, go,_ he told himself stubbornly. _Fuck, Martin, go have a drink at a pub. Don’t just put on your headphones on the tube and avoid eye contact. How can you expect to make friends if you don’t socialize?_

Getting outside was not helping as much as Martin thought it would. He almost preferred working, because at least that was something _productive._

There as an awful lot of traffic today. It was awful in London this time of day (most times of day except for a particular sweet spot between three and three-fifteen in the morning), but the streets seemed exceptionally crowded today. So much for a nice relaxing stroll. Martin didn’t have a car (couldn’t imagine who would need one in this city, frankly), and he was never more grateful that he didn’t have to worry about all this.

His mild frustration turned into alarm when he started to smell smoke. And – there it was! Billowing over the nearest building, dark plumes of smoke streaked into the sky. Martin could smell it now, too. Thick, awful stuff, that was. _Must still be going._

Martin would _never_ admit to wanting to rubberneck. That was childish behavior. And hurtful besides, what if people were hurt? Had died? There was more at stake than staring at a burning building. And what was so cool about watching a burning building, anyway?

Eventually, Martin consoled himself by saying that almost everyone, deep, deep down, would stop and watch a building burn down in the middle of the block.

He turned the corner, bringing the building into view, and froze. The connection between the waking world and his sleepy, half-remembered dream, snapped into place.

There it was, wasn’t it? That was the exact building from his dream, burning down. The same one he passed every day. The name was no more familiar to him than it had been during his sleep, but the fire was exactly the same. It stretched from the ground floor all the way to the third story. Martin watched as a heat wave rushed through, shattering a few windows. Everyone’s breath seemed to hold in baited silence for a moment.

Certainly was an _everyone,_ wasn’t it? People were huddled on the street. Traffic was stopped entirely, while emergency vehicles ran with their lights flashing. Humanitarian concern gripped Martin for a minute – he didn’t know what that place was, but he hoped everyone was _okay._

That concern grew more fleeting when he saw the overarching arch of the building start to collapse in on itself. A firefighter just barely managed to get out of the way of the crushing stone structure. When the arch fell, Martin could see the name of the building clearly dug into the stone.

_The Magnus Institute._

Despite himself, Martin shuddered. He’d never heard of it before. Funny thing, that was, could walk by a building every single day for years and years and have no idea what it did. Martin saw books visible in the shattered windows. Burning now, probably. All gone.

He was rooted to the spot, filled with an indescribable … _something._ Some emotion, some unnamed emotion that Martin was not equipped enough to express, rising up in him. The Magnus Institute, burning, that was _important._ He had seen it in his dream and not recognized it, then, and what a bizarre coincidence it was – but it had to be a coincidence, because what else could it possibly be?

He watched the fire burn against the cloudy gray sky of London. Emergency crews were on the outside, now, but Martin saw no bodies being drug out. Nothing remarkable. All around him, he heard people whisper _condemned_ and _abandoned_ and _so sad, a lovely old building like that, you hate to see it._

_No,_ Martin wanted to argue, a visceral sort of rage building up within him. _It is not a lovely old building._ And he didn’t know why, but he felt it, that that building was evil and fear and anger and monstrosities incarnate, and it burning down would only do good for everyone. He wasn’t really a violent person, those sort of tendencies didn’t come up in him. Martin blinked, and found that his eyes were watering.

_I’m … I’m crying?_ Martin asked himself. A quick swipe of his face confirmed it. His eyes were watering and streaming down his face. Embarrassed, Martin hid his face in the sleeve of his sweater. _Smoke._ That was the only reasonable explanation. The smoke buffeted against his face, burning it somewhat, and _yes,_ obviously it was the smoke, he wasn’t just crying from joy at the sight of a fire like some weird pyromaniac getting off in a garbage bin.

Another large chunk of the building fell with an ear-ringing _crrrrrack!_ Embers burst up into the sky, and that was when Martin saw someone in the crowd. Moving towards him. Unnoticed by everyone else, apparently. Martin gasped and took a step back.

It was the Eyeclops.

Out here, awake, and _moving towards him._ Martin’s lungs seized as he took a step back, a jolt of fear hitting him like a train. “S-s – “ He stopped, before he consoled himself. _You’re just going crazy,_ Martin soothed, _It’s the middle of the day, he’s not going to attack you, he’s not even real, you’re just dreaming it up, you’ve never had hallucinations before but I guess now is a fine time to start, they say schizophrenia can develop well into early adulthood, you know, so maybe that’s just what it is, but it seems so real, though I suppose that’s really the point of it, isn’t it?_

In an attempt to convince himself that it _was not_ real, Martin took a step towards him with faux confidence. He reached out to the Eyeclops. Most of him was the same – same dusty, raggedy coat, same strange limp, same Cousin Itt-esque hair, same strange, discolored tone to his skin – but Martin saw no eyes on him that weren’t meant to be there. That didn’t make him any less alarming, and Martin reached forward to grasp his shoulder.

_How do you know me,_ Martin wanted to ask, _Why are you following me? Why have I dreamed about you every night? Who are you? Who am I?_

The Eyeclops’ shoulder was frigid to the touch even under the jacket, and Martin saw that his hands were shaking badly. He had stopped moving forward, at any rate, but he was _real,_ because people were bumping into him. The Eyeclops would stagger to the side as if he’d been pushed, but nobody seemed to _notice_ him for the fire right in front of them. Every so often, Martin would see eyes flicker over to him and quickly avert themselves.

People noticed him. But they, unlike Martin, were intelligent enough to _avoid_ him.

He was groaning. He was groaning that same terrible groan that Martin heard every night in his dreams, terrorizing him. Now, it had a mouth to escape from, and it was no less horrifying than when he could actually hear the choked gurgle. Was he in pain? Was he _distressed?_

No. No, no, it was too much, Martin had to get away, this was _real_ and _scary_ and _irrational_ and Martin took his hand off his shoulder, scrubbing it against his front, wanting to get away, needing to get some air –

The Eyeclops lurched forward again as if he were deeply unaware of the dimensions of his own body. “M-Martin,” he shoved through his teeth. He acted like he wasn’t aware it was a name.

Then, the Eyeclops fell.

Martin watched as he fell right on the street, half-curled up. He was trembling so badly that Martin thought he might be seizing, but _surely_ seizures didn’t come in small bursts like that, right? Or perhaps they did, and Martin was about to watch a man die. Either way, the trembling soon stopped as the man curled up further.

Martin. _Martin,_ he had said. He knew his name, _knew_ him, as if Martin needed any further confirmation. This man had approached _him_ in the street. Reached out for _him._

As far as Martin could tell, he had two choices.

Run. Run so very far away. And let this strange mystery consume him, let himself never know what connection this man had to him, and perhaps drive himself slowly mad by the not-knowing. Alternatively, he could also be killed by this man who might very well mean him harm. Might just jump on him from an alley one day.

Or.

“Hey,” Martin asked, crouching down and putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. _He’s got two eyes. He’s not a monster, stop it,_ Martin chided himself, _He’s – he’s probably just some homeless man around here. You’ve probably passed him every day on the street and not noticed him, because you’re a terrible person, and he just so happens to be in your dreams as a terrifying eye monster. You never notice him, he always notices you in your dreams, like … like some cheesy horror story._ “Hey. Are you alright?”

His hair had fallen from his face just enough so that Martin could see his eye for the first time, the same coffee brown as the other eyes Martin had seen. It was awfully bloodshot. And what were those circular _scars_ all around his face? He was clean-shaven, which struck Martin as odd, but perhaps some men just couldn’t grow beards, he supposed.

The Eyeclops just groaned again, though Martin could tell no words. It sounded sad. With hundreds of people around, Martin stopped being quite so frightened of him. It was obvious that this was just a frail, weak normal human man. Martin wasn’t going to condemn him because his strange dreams had given him more eyes than normal. And – maybe this man _did_ know him from somewhere. Who was to say, with Martin’s issues with memory? While Martin would be horrified if he’d forgotten some dear old friend … it wasn’t _impossible._

He helped up the man to a standing position. His knees were shaking a little. Touching him made him somewhat less intimidating, though Martin couldn’t imagine why he was just so cold. It was a pleasant London day, warm enough if a bit rainy. “Can I take you somewhere?” _Christ, why are you shouting as if he’s deaf. Wait, is he deaf?_

No response. Very well might be deaf, then. He was nevertheless gripping Martin’s arm like a vice, to the point where Martin felt his arm start to ache. Couldn’t pull away, even if Martin wanted to. His long coat was open slightly, and –

Yes. Yes, that was definitely something that looked very much like blood dried all along the front of his shirt. There was no way it was recent – parts of it had started to crust and flake off, but _still,_ there was a _lot_ of it. The shirt was in tatters, barely clinging to his body. “Are you _okay?”_ Martin asked him again – _stop shouting if you think he’s deaf, moron –_ “Do you need me to take you to a hospital?”

No response. Slight swaying, though, and the Eyeclops leaned over to grasp Martin by the top of his shoulder. Martin heard a gruff shout from somewhere up ahead. The onlookers were being ushered out as the emergency crew started to wind down, and Martin saw people start to push past at them.

People’s eyes lingered on his new companion for a half-second before darting away, pretending that they just hadn’t seen him at all. One, someone relatively University-aged, wrinkled their nose at the man and snickered with their friend before bustling off.

Martin felt a stab of sympathy. Sure, he _could_ hand this man off to the nearest police officer, fireman, hospital, bin behind an alley …

“Let’s go get you cleaned up,” Martin offered softly, bewildered at himself. But this man didn’t seem _hurt,_ he just seemed like he’d been out in the elements too long and needed a wash and a meal. Martin could offer all that. And, if he let this man go, he’d never get an explanation as to how he knew him.

He just had to hope that inviting the Eyeclops that had stalked his dreams for the past six months into his home wasn’t the most godawfully stupid thing he’d ever done.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None

If Martin expected a riveting conversation on the walk back to his flat, he didn’t receive it. The man seemed confused. In a daze. Although he heard faint mumbles, Martin couldn’t pick out anything specific. Martin had started to idly wonder if he was on drugs. Perhaps he’d gone into the Magnus Institute to sleep off a bender ( _is that rude? Is bender a rude word now? Look it up later,_ Martin told himself), and woken up at the fire. That might make sense, even if it didn’t quite explain how he knew his _bloody name._

After a few blocks, his movements began to get more staggered. He was obviously favoring one leg over another, and Martin moved to stand on his bad side. Martin fussed for a second – _are you okay, are you okay, do you need me to get you to a hospital, Christ, I should’ve taken BSL –_ before he saw him drag one bony hand up to rub at his eyes. He was _tired._ Hell. As his fingers pushed some of his long, long hair back, Martin saw thick purple bags underneath his eyes. Worst he’d ever seen.

Eventually, uncertainly, Martin had raised a hand to wrap around his shoulders. The Eyeclops had a habit of wandering to the edge of the pavement every minute or so, and Martin was worried about how close he was walking to the street. That was the last thing either of them needed, this man getting hit by an errant cabbie.

People gave them a wide berth. Martin didn’t know what they were thinking, but he sort of wanted to. Probably nothing good, so perhaps it was better that he didn’t. Martin generally thought people were staring at him, but now, he presumed the eyes were on his strange companion.

After a few blocks, and due in part to Martin partially supporting his weight, Martin began to make sense of the strange words he was grunting. “Two eyes,” he grunted out, “Two eyes. Two eyes. Hair. Blond. Small. 66 inches. But lean. Hazel. Hazel eyes. Waistcoat, with a black overcoat, and – got a gun. Inside. SIG Sauer. P320. Ammunition clip is full. White socks – no!” He snarled, fierce with himself. “One white sock. One black. Shoes shined and polished. Right laces untied. He’s. He’s mad. His eyes. They’re gone. They’re there. But they’re gone. And he knows – he knows it’s over.”

“Ehm, sorry,” Martin asked politely, twisting his head down to look at his short companion. “What was that about a gun?”

The Eyeclops twisted his head back to look at him, his hair falling away from his face. He was quizzical and confused, and soon ducked his head down and continued his muttering. Something about rats and termites and spiders.

“Okay.” _This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. He’s going to chew off your limbs while you’re sleeping. Who cares if he knows your name. Just drop him. Let him go._

Martin’s overactive imagination helpfully filled in a scenario where he would see an evening news report, and see a little segment about how they found a dead, mentally ill homeless man on the pavement in London, so sad about the state of things these days. The scenario worsened by imagining them finding CCTV footage of Martin heartlessly abandoning the Eyeclops on the ground and villainously strutting back to his own flat. Perhaps they’d dig up old documents and he’d get outed on national television. Perhaps they’d try him for negligent murder.

_You’re literally impossible,_ Martin told himself, _just shut up. Brain. Just shut up._ Still, the troubling thought dogged the back of his brain and he kept his arm on the man next to him.

They made it just to the front of Martin’s flat, with the Eyeclops muttering about this and that. All the while, Martin strained his ears to try and pick anything out. But he couldn’t pull anything together. None of it seemed to flow or make coherent order, it was like the Eyeclops was just _listing_ things. Until:

“Helen,” the Eyeclops grunted out. “Helen Fourier. Bailey Watts. Jeremy Nguyen. Petrov Lurinsky.”

_Okay,_ no big deal! No big deal, the Eyeclops had just politely informed him of the four people that he’d ever kissed, and _that_ wasn’t weird! Not at all! Everything was _fine._

As far as Martin could figure, that was the only possible connection the four people had with one another, considering he’d met Helen Fourier for about forty minutes at a sleepover at a friend’s house, got dared to kiss her on a dare, and then went home crying when she teased him for it.

“Um?” Martin asked, staring down at him with wide eyes. The Eyeclops did nothing but shudder and release a groan of pain, before Martin was suddenly supporting a lot more ( _all)_ of his weight. “Oh, _god._ Are you _okay?”_

At that time, they had reached the front of his flat. Martin let themselves in and hurried the Eyeclops forward to the couch. He immediately flopped onto it and curled in a fetal position towards Martin. “Do you – “ Wasn’t completely off the table that he was deaf, though, was it?. Grunting in mild alarm, Martin reached for his phone. _Don’t do it. Don’t Google ‘how say hospital in BSL’._

Out of desperation, Martin Googled ’How say hospital in BSL’. He mimicked the sign clumsily in front of the Eyeclops, to which he received no response, though his eyes were barely open at that point. _Guess there’s no guarantee he knows BSL anyway, is it? Bit privileged of you to think so._

“Hospital?” Martin eventually asked, anxiety and worry clear in his eyes, his posture. “Hospital, I just – do you need to go to _hospital?”_

The Eyeclops’ eyes flicked towards him, strangely penetrative. Martin wrapped his arms around his midsection protectively. “No,” he eventually rumbled out. His eyes fell shut. “Just sleep.”

Oh. Okay. And that was that. His breathing started to even out almost immediately, his muscles going slack on his sofa. Martin watched his head flop back onto the pillow, hair splayed out over his face. Like that, Martin could see that he was even smaller than he’d even originally thought. Probably worryingly small. Where had he come from? Where had he been? Did Martin even have any clothes that would _fit_ him?

The Eyeclops’ hair fell in front of his face, the strands hanging far off enough the sofa to trail on the floor. His fingernails were caked in something dark – _blood,_ Martin thought to himself. Same blood, or at least the same fluid, that was caked onto the front of his shirt. One of his hands was severely burned and splotchy. Mysterious circular scars dotted his neck and face. The long coat he had on was several sizes too large and looked like it was held together on sheer faith.

_Who are you?_ Martin wondered, not for the first time. He knew he shouldn’t watch. Shouldn’t stare like he was doing, like this man was some sort of animal in a zoo. But Martin couldn’t force himself to look away. This man _knew_ him – details that Martin was sure he’d never told any other person. So who was _he?_

And what was going to happen when he woke up, anyway? Martin was going to offer him a shower and a meal, of course, but he didn’t seem particularly willing to chat before. Beyond that, though, Martin couldn’t think of a way to entice him to stay.

Not worth worrying over right that minute. He went to go make tea in his kitchen, trying not to let himself get swept away worrying about the man covered in old blood who knew far too many personal details about him. Martin stared at the kettle and blinked several dozen times to re-orient himself. If this was a continuation of his dream, he considered, it had taken one _hell_ of a weird turn.

He reached for two mugs. Martin doubted that the Eyeclops would be up to drinking it before it got cold, but it was a nice officer. He poured them both and held them against his hands, feeling the warmth. With a breath for bravery, he stepped back into the living room.

And dropped both mugs on the floor.

The Eyeclops was still on his couch. Still in the fetal position, still facing the main living room. His hair still rested against the floor. Martin could still see the slow, even rise and fall of his chest.

But, in his outstretched forearm, Martin saw a large, vigilant brown eye watching the ceiling blankly. _Shit,_ Martin thought to himself, trying not to panic. He treaded forward carefully over the broken mugs. _Shit shit shit. It’s real, it’s real, how is it real, oh my god._ His calves brushed against the coffee table as he peered over his sleeping companion. He needed to see the eye closer, to get a final confirmation that … that something was not what it seemed.

Martin leaned over the couch to see the arm. Yes, there, much bigger than normal, was a eye sprouting right out of the top of his forearm. It was staring blankly up at the ceiling, completely static, and was the same color as the eyes from his dream. It seemed so flat that it could’ve been painted on. That hadn’t _been_ there before.

As Martin was watching, the eye suddenly flicked to _stare_ at him.

It was too much. Too much for a man who had lived a very average and normal life until this very second, thank you very much. Martin let out a scared yelp and scrambled away from the man on the couch. He had to _get out,_ now. His front door called to him and Martin escaped. There had to be someone he could get to. Someone he could bring into this insane situation, so he wasn’t trapped in the room with him and the man who had _just grown an extra eye on his arm, just like his dreams, oh god, something was terribly wrong._ Martin’s breath was coming in short pants, face red with effort to keep it together.

_Georgie,_ he thought to himself, staring down the hall. _Melanie. I’ve got to – I’ve got to have someone here. I’ve got to have someone watching him with me, because I can’t – alone, I don’t – I’ve got to have someone here._

He looked back through the open door, at the man sleeping serenely on his sofa, and Martin scrambled for the doorknob. The door shut a lot louder and a lot faster than he anticipated, and he heard the walls tremble as Martin fled down to his neighbor’s flat. They might think he was crazy, but – they needed to know it was _urgent,_ and he needed them _now._

-

Jon had slept peacefully through the mugs being dropped on the floor, but in the end, it was the door slamming shut that had him startling awake. He let out a “Euuh!” as he heard the loud bang, bolting upright and staring around wildly. Reaching for his hair, Jon pulled it out of his eyes to properly see.

Where the hell _was_ he?

Not knowing, the simple act of not knowing, set Jon’s senses on fire. He couldn’t just let things soak into his mind. No, the walls were absolutely blank to him, and there were two broken mugs of tea on the floor. Jon’s eyebrows furrowed as he pushed himself up to a standing position …

And started to veer to the side _immediately._ Jon stuck out a hand to catch himself on the sofa arm. As he did, he saw the eye blinking serenely on his forearm like it had every right to be there. The sight of extra eyes on himself seemed so familiar that Jon couldn’t manage much more than a glare. “Off, you,” he accused. With a burning sensation that had Jon grimacing, the eye obediently sank back into his skin.

That was enough of _that._

It had been six months since he had felt any sense of identity. Between then was a murky blur of monstrosity, of shuffling through the empty halls of the Institute. A minotaur roaming the labyrinth, objective to do nothing but know. Jon was grateful that no ne’er-d-wells had ever snuck in. Even if the Archivist had been mostly peaceful, he was capable of inflicting great harm. Death, if he so chose.

He didn’t feel 100%, certainly … it was as if Jon had woken up from a long nap, and the first few seconds of not knowing where or who he was seemed to last for entire minutes. That was alright. Jon could manage. 

Right, he just had to _think._ Recent events seemed even murkier than older ones, and he couldn’t for the life of him piece together how he had gone from the Institute to someone’s one-bedroom mildly shitty flat. Either way, Jon wasn’t so optimistic to think that it was for any good reason. Jon looked down at himself, at his raggled clothing, and noted that there didn’t _seem_ to be any fresh blood anywhere.

He had to get out and collect himself, because he wasn’t entirely certain that the world hadn’t _not_ ended.

He hadn’t seen the sky in six months. Or perhaps he had, if he could remember how he’d gotten here.

Jon attempted a step and quickly staggered – _Christ, what I’d give for my cane._ If nothing had disturbed it, though, that was still gathering dust in a comfortable safehouse in Scotland. The moment the world had ended, Jon had ashamedly felt nothing but euphoria. None of the usual aches and pains bothered him until the information came rushing in, and then Jon had barely been able to cling to Martin. It had been a bit of a mess, trying to get back to England.

His legs felt unsteady beneath him, and his bad leg was giving him twinges of sharp pain every time he so much as willed it to move. _Those Archivist powers don’t seem like such a hassle now, do they?_ He ended up falling entirely onto the shards of broken mug on the floor. The cuts were shallow, but Jon still hissed in pain as he reached his hand down to touch along his calf. His hands came away bloody from shallow lacerations, but it was _fine,_ he was _fine,_ he just had to get out and he’d sort everything _later._

Eyes flashing in determination, Jon placed both hands on the coffee table and pushed himself up to a standing position. He limped towards the front door slowly. This was the same clothing he’d been wearing when it had all went down, wasn’t it? A glance downward, at the crusty blood on what was left of his shirt, confirmed it. Hadn’t changed at all. That would have to be fixed, later. How, he didn’t know, but he could manage it.

He placed his hand on the doorframe. As he did so, he noticed a few gray strands falling from it. Jon reared back in fear. _Cobwebs. Is this one of the Web’s puppets? An illusion of her own making?_ His fingers carded through his hair and found a few more strands coming away. God, it was his own hair. It didn’t seem like his own hair. _More grey than you remember, isn’t it?_ Taking a deep breath, Jon tried to steady himself. A plan would come later, whenever the _hell_ he got his bearings straight, and he yanked the doorknob open.

Martin. Melanie. Georgie.

Martin was staring at the open door in bewilderment with his key in his hand. Behind him, Jon saw Melanie, same as when he’d last seen her – tall, willowy, long purple hair that was pulled taut against her skull. No, Jon reconsidered, it was now streaks of purple hair amidst the black, instead of the entire thing. She was missing the blood spatter across her face, which Jon saw as a blessing. And Georgie, short and podgy. Her hair was much frizzier than normal, standing nearly on end, lipstick nearly the same shade as Georgie’s dye.

Jon should have been logical about all of this. They were clearly shocked to see him, and Martin clearly afraid. Perhaps, if he’d been more pulled together, he would’ve remembered Elias’ warning that everyone would forget him. That he would be nothing more than a repository for all the knowledge of the universe, but have no real identity of his own. That he, by most philosophical definitions of the world, would not exist.

He was not more pulled together, as it happened. Instead, he was just seeing his old friends – ones he had missed so much. “Martin,” Jon choked out, a wide beam spreading across his face. He removed his hand from the door and placed it on Martin’s shoulder. Looking past him, Jon added, “Melanie, Georgie, I – I can’t believe it’s you.”

Georgie reacted first. She reached over Martin’s shoulder and physically pulled Jon’s hand off with no real care. “Right, why haven’t we called the police?” She demanded of the larger man. “He’s clearly some sort of – I don’t know, a stalker? Maybe he’s been staking out the flats.”

“He doesn’t have any weapons on him, does he?” Melanie asked next. Jon took a step back. There was a sharp practicality in her voice, her face snapping towards him. “Have you checked?”

“I – I mean, _look_ at him,” Martin was mumbling, and then shook his head fiercely. “Not _you,_ sorry, but I mean, clearly he’s not in any state to – “

“Oh my _God,_ he’s got blood on the front of his shirt!”

“He’s got blood on the front of his _shirt?”_

“Yes, and his – his legs! Martin, you brought this man back to your flat?”

“The blood on my legs is recent,” Jon muttered. He screwed up his face stubbornly as he gestured back inside the flat. Although Jon wanted to sound faintly irritated at the line of questioning, he knew his weak, scratchy voice only made him sound pitiful. “I fell down. Because it hurts to walk. I hope that answers the ‘Does he have any weapon’ question, too. Hardly think I’m in any fit state to be fighting.”

His knees were shaking worse, now. Jon’s fingers went back to the doorframe to support himself, but he knew it wouldn’t last long. He needed to rest. _How’s that ‘you’ll deal with this on your own’ plan going? They don’t remember you. Stupid, should’ve realized immediately._ Spots began to grow in front of Jon’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I – “ Jon apologized, wetting his lips, “I need to … I need to sit down a second.” He was feeling faint.

Martin, who still looked a little frightened out of his wits, nonetheless stepped forward to put an arm around his shoulders. Jon forced himself not to lean against him, even as he wanted to. The last time he’d properly had Martin’s arm around him (when it hadn’t been, practically, for supporting his weight) had been the morning of the end of the world, when they’d woken up in bed pressed against one another. Martin’s face had been at his neck. Jon had been quietly kissed awake.

_Let’s not think of Scotland,_ Jon thought weakly.

“The hospital, at least, if not the police,” Georgie advocated. Martin shuffled him inside and sat him down.

“He said –”

“No hospital,” Jon finished for him. He got himself as comfortable as he could on the couch. This was Martin’s flat, then. Martin, who didn’t recall him. Melanie, who didn’t either. Most hurtful of all was Georgie, who had known him the longest and was now glaring at him as if he were about to start cackling. Looking over the side of the couch, he saw that some blood had trickled down his leg and was starting to collect on Martin’s floor. “Oh. I’m sorry.” Somewhat frazzled, Jon reached down and placed his fingers over the wound.

“Hang on, I’ve got a – let me go.” Martin stood and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Jon with Melanie and Georgie. He peered up at them meekly. _Don’t hate me. Please don’t look at me like that, you two, just please._

“How do you know him, then? Us, because I definitely didn’t introduce myself to you,” Georgie demanded, taking a step towards him. It wasn’t threatening, but Jon nevertheless shrunk against the couch.

_Hi, yes, we used to date, and it’s honestly probably better that you don’t remember._ Jon stared down at his lap and pursed his lips, thinking. “I don’t – “ He tried, desperately scrambling for a lie. None came. He wasn’t as good at this as Martin was. Martin, who came up with a chatteringly believable cover story in Scotland in mere seconds. “I stay around here. Mostly. Seen you two out and about, I guess. And Martin.” Jon ducked his head, rubbing the side of his nose.

Melanie frowned and took a step forward. Georgie put a protective hand on her shoulder and guided her to the chair to sit down. “Not to be rude,” she asked, “But are you on drugs?”

The bluntness of the question made Jon smile. He reached forward to scrub his hands over his face. No eyes. _No eyes._ At least, none where there weren’t meant to be. “Would saying ‘yes’ make this situation better or worse?” A beat. Melanie’s face didn’t change. He wasn’t going to be attempting jokes again. “Ehm, no. No drugs.”

“So this isn’t withdrawal, then? Don’t have to worry about any of that?”

“No, no.” Jon waved her off. He caught sight of Georgie staring at him intently, eyes boring into him. Back when they used to date, Jon had always found it _very_ hard to lie to her. At that time, Martin came back into the kitchen with a first-aid kit in his hands. He placed it on the coffee table and made a movement to get down on his knees to tend to Jon’s leg. Of _course_ Martin was still attempting to be sweet.

Jon snapped his hand to Martin’s shoulder and gave him a polite, negative push. “ _No._ None of that. I can take care of it.” A beat. Everyone was staring at him with his hand on the man. Even Martin’s eyes were on his shoulder, as if he expected Jon to start squeezing until he broke skin. “I can take care of it,” he repeated as he rolled up what was left of his trousers and started to work. It required nothing more than a bit of disinfectant and a few bandages, but Jon was grateful that it gave him something to do. Somewhere to keep his eyes busy.

“What’s your name?” Martin asked suddenly, taking a seat down next to him. “I mean, I’ve been calling you – “ He paused. “Doesn’t matter. What’s your name?”

Oh, that hurt. That hurt more than he thought it would. Jon’s fingers stilled as he peeled apart the bandages. Martin asking for his _name,_ because he didn’t _know_ him, because all the memories – the few good and the many, many bad – were gone.

Jon was the only one who kept the memories. Everything that had happened, everyone involved, had either died or forgot. That he was the sole bearer – the sole archive – made him somehow … sad.

He bit the inside of his cheek, before tearing away the rest of the bandage packaging. “Jon,” he related softly. “No H.” A pause. _Stop. You don’t need to spell it. They’ve got it._ “J-O-N.” _Idiot._

“Okay. Jon.” Martin relayed. Jon noticed out of the corner of his eye that he was looking over at Melanie and Georgie after every pause. He couldn’t exactly blame him for wanting company over, either for witnesses or bodyguards. He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror yet, but based on the way that he kept inadvertently pulling hair out of his head, Jon was sure he looked a sight. “Have you … _um,”_ Martin stopped, pressing one hand to his cheek. “I don’t really – er -- “

“Martin, why did you take him home?” Georgie turned to Martin directly. “I mean, no offense, mate, you don’t seem like the kind of man who has a lot of people over, but you can’t take home every stranger that knows your name into your flat. Especially ones that are covered in blood.’

“Yes, why _did_ you take me to yours, exactly?” Jon asked as he shifted to look at Martin. The man of the hour had gone beet red and was quietly pulling at the fabric on the knees of his trousers to distract himself. Martin’s eyes were directed at his lap. “I don’t rightly recall.”

“’vesinim inmaidreems,” Martin mumbled under his breath, so quietly that it sounded as if he were chewing on cotton.

Melanie tilted her head to the side. “ _Yes,_ Martin?”

“I’ve seen him. In my dreams. Every night, for the last six months, except he’s covered in eyes, and – I’m not _crazy,_ I mean it, every _night_ for _six_ months, and that’s _got_ to mean something, hasn’t it? Especially when _he_ apparently knows my name. Stop looking at me like that.”

Martin had seen him, in his dreams. For months.

_Poor Martin. I’d rather not look at myself for a single second._

“You took him home based on what you saw in a dream. _Christ,_ you’re just like my mum,” Georgie remarked, leaning forward with her elbow on her knee. She started to rub the center of her forehead in mild pain. “What, just like this? We’re not even talking about the _eye_ you thought you saw on him, Jesus Christ – “

“He had an eye, on his arm, _how could I possibly be make that up – “_

“What’s he look like?”

All three heads swiveled to look towards Melanie. The question had been strangely urgent, and the emotion was reflected on her face. Her lips were pulled in a tight frown as she leaned over her knees. “What does,” she repeated, “He look like?”

Martin turned her head to look at Jon. Jon felt strangely appraised. “Um, well, he’s – ah, he’s – “

“He’s brown,” Georgie finished for him. “He’s short.”

“I’d say around 5’2”?”

“Five foot _three,”_ Jon protested hotly.

“He’s got long hair, it’s mostly grey, about near to his waist. Burned up hand. Weird circle scars all over him. Eyes are …” Georgie trailed off, and Jon assisted her by holding his hair back. “Hazelly brown?” She glanced back towards her girlfriend. “Want me to keep going?”

“Rather you not,” Jon mumbled, “Feels like you’re about to rate me out of ten.”

Melanie’s hand had stilled on her knees, but her breath left in a slow, shaky exhale. “That’s him.” She turned her head to face Georgie. “That’s the Oculothorax.”

“The _what –”_ Jon asked in offense. At the same time, Martin spluttered out, “You’ve seen him _too?”_

Silence sprouted between the four people – excepting Melanie and Georgie, Jon supposed, they were all now complete strangers. He looked over Martin and dimly wondered if Martin was a stranger to him, now, too. Was it really friendship if one person knew quite a bit about the other and the other knew not one iota? No, Jon finally decided, that might’ve fallen under a strictly technical definition of stalking.

Martin eventually broke the quiet by adding sheepishly, “I’ve been calling him the Eyeclops. Where’s Oculothorax come from?”

“The _Eyeclops.”_ Jon groaned in distaste, putting his head into his hands.

“It’s um, a TVTropes page. When I first started having them, Georgie and I started to look up – maybe I was getting an idea from a TV show, or a book, or a tabletop game, or _something._ But, no. And when it started happening, every night, I … I don’t know what I thought. Stress, maybe, or something, from,” Melanie raised a finger and tapped at her temples. “I went blind in the last year.”

“Oh.”

“That’s what the therapist said it might be,” Georgie broke in, “And that it ought to go away naturally.”

“How did it – I mean, I’m sorry that you went blind, obviously, but do you mind me asking how it happened?”

“Yes.” Georgie answered on her girlfriend’s behalf, sounding blunt. “Yes, she and I _do_ mind.” Melanie paused, lips twisting a bit, before nodding. She reached over and put her hand on Georgie’s back, thumbing the nape of her girlfriend’s neck. Martin looked deeply apologetic.

Jon wasn’t sure what Melanie remembered. Stabbing herself in the eyes with an awl must’ve been bad enough, but stabbing herself in the eyes with an awl _without the context of the Magnus Institute_ must’ve been horrifying. He almost wanted to reach out to comfort her, and was grateful when Georgie placed a hand on her knee to give it a comforting squeeze. Either way, he was grateful to be out of the limelight for a minute.

Until Georgie’s eyes turned towards him. “So what _are_ you, then?”

“I – I’m. Uhm. What?”

“Come off it. Right, I might’ve believed the whole ‘I’m a transient who just heard your names around the building’ thing, but you appearing in two people’s dreams, _independently,_ for _months –”_ Georgie’s voice was raising. “Not a chance.”

Martin’s eyebrows had furrowed. “Hang _on._ What do you mean, _what_ is he? You don’t really think he’s some sort of – “

“Monster? Yeah. Yes, actually, I do.”

And if _that_ wasn’t a proper question. Jon stared down at his palms. They were covered with a bit of blood from his tending to his legs, but the important thing was that there were no eyes. He heard Martin protest in front of him that monsters didn’t exist, _obviously,_ why were they even having that conversation, _no,_ he didn’t think of any other explanation, but that didn’t just _mean_ –

“No,” Jon croaked. “Not anymore. I don’t think. At least, mostly not.”

“Do you want to hurt any of us?” Melanie chimed in. Jon could see that Martin had gone entirely pale next to him, and Georgie’s eyebrows had furrowed in thought. “Why did you _know_ about us?”

“I, I, I, I can’t –” What was he going to say? Espouse the entire bombshell of the Magnus Institute on them? “I’m not going to _hurt_ any of you.” Jon promised, looking up at all of them. “I just – I need – “ He needed _answers._ “I need to go back to the Magnus Institute.” There, he could find answers. He needed to know that everything was alright – he recalled Elias dying, of course, and the world seemed thoroughly unended, but he needed to _know_ what was going on. Perhaps even find a way to make his friends remember him.

Yes, _yes._ If he could explore the library, perhaps he could find a Leitner there – or _something._ Something that would re-establish his connection with the Eye and let him remember – let him _make them remember._

Otherwise, Jon had no idea what he was doing. Otherwise, it was all over, and Jon was …

Jon was alone.

“Martin, could you – please. Take me back to the Magnus Institute.”

“The hell is the Magnus Institute?” The question was posed from Georgie to Melanie, to which Melanie shook her head.

Martin looked like he was frozen somewhat to the spot. Jon let out a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and shuffled on the sofa next to him. He reached out and touched his shoulder, to which …

Martin flinched as if he’d been slapped.

Jon’s eyes widened in shock, his heart breaking. _Be gentle,_ Jon told himself, _he doesn’t know you. He just thinks you’re some sort of … monster, at worst. And some sort of lunatic, at best._ “Please, can you take me back there?” He asked in a softer voice. Martin paused and then shook his head, and then Jon realized he wasn’t being _unwilling._ He was _incapable._ “Martin,” Jon continued, feeling faint. Martin would if he could. But he couldn’t.

“What happened to the Magnus Institute?”

-

Investigative journalism was a very formal word for what equated to a _lot_ of digging through people’s things. Usually, Basira found, it was trash. Mail, sometimes. Occasionally underwear. This wasn’t the first time she had had to dig through the remains of a fire, though certainly one on a much larger scale than what she was accustomed to.

The Magnus Institute had turned up some very interesting information. An institution dedicated to uncovering the paranormal. Basira’s relationship to the paranormal was complicated. Some existed, she assumed, but for the most part – people were generally terrified of their own shadow and would create all sorts of crazy explanations for it. Basira wasn’t, not often. And neither was Daisy.

Daisy was industriously picking through what remained of the Magnus Institute. It was easily the middle of the night, but they risked police presence if they did it in the daytime. If anyone on the street level saw them picking things apart with torches in their grip, then they’d chalk it up to the cleanup crew.

Neither Basira nor Daisy minded staying up all night much. Sleep was difficult. For the past six months, they’d both had the same shared nightmare – or rather, the same shared part of a nightmare. She was more than happy not to see the Eye Guy again another night.

“Found anything, Day?” Basira called over the foundation of the building. On her end, most of it was charred up beyond recognition. A lot of books. A lot of plastic that still smelled terribly. Nothing of much consequence.

Her girlfriend peeked up from where she was searching. Although Basira would confidently refer to Daisy as her partner, Daisy was the one with a steady day job. Personal trainer, and damn good at it, too. Basira watched (with what she would _outwardly_ call as admirable respect, and what she would _inwardly_ call as obvious ogling) as she lifted up the remains of a large bookcase and tossed the cinders to the side. “Nothing,” she grunted, running her hands through her blond hair. It was already stained black with soot. “This might be a little easier if I know what I’m looking for, babe.”

“If I knew what we were looking for, we’d be out by now.” They were well under the street of London, in what Basira imagined might’ve been the basement once upon a time. She reached down and picked up what might’ve been a functioning tape recorder, popped it open, and grimaced as she saw the melted plastic within. “They’ve got a website, this place. Magnus Institute. But I’ve reached out to two dozen paranormal blogs and none of them have ever even heard of it.” Basira waved her hand at large to the sky. “Gigantic bloody place since the nineteenth century, _dedicated_ to investigating the paranormal, and _nobody’s_ heard of it. And the entire place goes up within _minutes.”_

Basira heard Daisy lift up another bookshelf and then toss the bits of it to the side. “So you think it’s arson.” A pause. “Spooky arson.”

“I don’t know what I think it is. But I know it’s worth checking out. It might’ve been a front for something,” Basira argued. “Money laundering. Drugs. Etc.”

“Is that what libraries go in for these days? Drug sales?”

“They could really do with the money.”

“Point.”

Basira pushed open a mostly-charred door, which collapsed entirely as she touched it. The only walls that were left standing from this old place were in the basement, and even those were scorched beyond recognition. She was wearing a gas mask and had to shout for Daisy to hear her, but she had a sneaking suspicion Daisy had removed her own gas mask and was using her bandanna. She’d snap at her about it later. _Pulmonary health, Day, really, I happen to like you._

This had clearly been an old office, at some point. Basira saw the remains of a few scorched metal filing cabinets, but when she opened them, everything aside was simply ash.

She wasn’t an arson expert. She’d reached out to one – a few, actually – to point out some strange inconsistencies she’d found. The biggest thing was how _total_ the fire seemed. Certainly, there were some structures still standing in the basement, but everything else was totally wiped. Could basic electrical fires, as everyone was reporting, even _do_ that?

Not to mention that, despite the Magnus Institute still operating according to the website, there hadn’t been anybody in the building. A three-story building around noon during a week day. It set Basira’s suspicion off.

There was a desk in the center of the office that seemed mostly ruined, and only barely holding it together. Basira stretched her fingers within her gloves for a moment before pulling one of the drawers open.

Broken bits of glass and soot. Unsurprising. Basira closed it and searched through a few others, finding nothing much of interest, before she opened the very last drawer. She quickly found a lighter with a spider-web pattern and thrust it into her pocket as a potential clue. She continued to search. There, her fingers wrapped around something solid that didn’t crumble in her grasp. Even if it was covered in black dust, it seemed solid enough. She extracted it.

With her gloves already covered in ash, she could hardly brush it off there. Instead, Basira rubbed it against her coat until some of the ash was wiped away. The exterior of the object was an off-white color, long and slightly curved. A claw? No, that wasn’t quite it, it looked more like a … like a …

“D’you find something?” Daisy asked, hopping down into the basement level and walking over to her. She put a hand on the small of Basira’s back as she examined it. “Um.”

“Don’t you think it looks a bit like a … “ Daisy was a vegetarian, and Basira didn’t eat pork and avoided red meat in general, but they had seen someone sit down to a short stack before. The similarities were there, and slightly horrifying.

“A rib?” They both echoed at one another.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Web-related body horror

After laying down once more, Jon started to come to later that evening. In the end, after they had all awkwardly stared at the sleeping man on sofa for some hours, Martin told them that he’d call if he saw any change. They had exchanged numbers, so Martin was doing _brilliantly_ in the social sector. Only took him taking home a potential lunatic to do it. Before they had went back into their own flat, they’d all had a brief discussion about what to do with him.

Melanie wasn’t against just dropping him off at the hospital. Clearly, he could do with a looking-over. Georgie was against it, on the off-chance that this was a dangerous monster who needed to be confined. Martin questioned the logic of that, because if he was a dangerous monster then he _definitely_ didn’t need to be in Martin’s flat. Still, they had all come to the same mutual conclusion – Jon would be kept until proven dangerous. 

And, sleeping, he certainly wasn’t dangerous. Martin even felt comfortable disappearing into the kitchen and shutting the door to put some dinner on. He hadn’t eaten properly since he’d gotten back and seeing him asleep was proof enough that he needed a bit of feeding up.

Ever since he was old enough to reach the top of the stove, Martin had been responsible for dinner. His mother had taught him how to cook when he was younger. Things had been better when Martin was younger. As he grew into his teens and his mother’s health and mood and limited open-mindedness took a sharp downturn, Martin found himself in the kitchen alone more and more.

Still, just because he could make a _damn_ good cabbage roll didn’t mean that he had the time (or, sometimes, money) to cook much. Especially when he worked nights as well as full days, he usually didn’t have much more urge to do anything more than put things in a pot or a microwave. Some days, takeaway was about the most effort he could summon up.

It seemed a little rude to just throw things in the microwave for Jon, though. Eye monster or not. Martin anxiously looked inside his pantry and his fridge to see what he had. Maybe – _okay,_ no, okay, he could make a chicken soup out of what he had. And he had a couple of vegetables he could throw in, make it something like a stew. And … bread. He had bread. That would do.

He threw the broth on and waited with his back on the counter, scrubbing his hands over his face. Martin was starting to think he was getting used to this entire business, even if he had three thousand more questions for “Not a monster anymore” Jon. _Anymore_ was the key element there. Even if Jon didn’t answer how he knew him. Even if Jon didn’t know why he’d been appearing in two people’s dreams. Even if a lot of things, Martin wanted to know.

The kitchen started to smell like chicken broth and oil. It was comfortably warm, and Martin felt himself breathe for the first time in a few hours. While he wasn’t convinced that Jon was entirely _safe_ to have around, he no longer felt like he was being watched. He heard shuffling from the kitchen and opened the door, looking out onto the sofa.

Jon was out there. Martin had caught him shivering in his sleep and had decided to put a blanket on him, though it had mostly fallen off his body at that point. Maybe he had an ulterior motive on that – could hardly see if the rest of his body was sprouting eyes again if he was concealed by a blanket. He was nonetheless shifting on the couch and opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling before gazing at the man in the kitchen doorway.

“Um,” he remarked in a rough voice.

“Hi. You, er, how was your nap?”

Jon blinked a couple of times in sleepy surprise.

“Yeah, er, you got all faint and said you needed a lie-down when I told you – hang on, you’re not going to pass out, are you?” Maybe it was like a sort-of kill switch for Eye monsters. Jon seemed to take stock of himself, removing the blanket entirely as he pressed his hands up and down his abdomen.

“Fine.” There wasn’t much force behind Jon’s voice. “I think I’m fine. It was, um,” He raised his hands to his temple. “You were telling me that you think the Magnus Institute burned down.”

“A little more than ‘think’, really. I _saw_ it.”

“Not all of it.”

“I don’t mean to correct you, but I _really_ don’t think that any of it survived. The entire building was collapsing when I ran into you. Seriously, biggest inferno I’ve ever seen.” From the look of Jon’s face, he didn’t believe him. Instead, he made a frustrated noise and leaned forward on his knees. His hair hung forward and brushed against his clasped hands. “How are you feeling, then?”

“Um, I could – if – I could do with some water.” Just as Martin prepare himself to dip back into the kitchen, he heard Jon’s stomach growl loudly. Jon’s eyes widened a little in embarrassment as he pressed his hand to his stomach. He looked up at Martin near-accusingly.

The mundanity of it all made Martin smile. “Hungry? I was just making dinner.” Jon seemed to hesitate, unwilling to impose, before Martin continued. “You’re not vegetarian, are you? I was making chicken soup.”

“Oh my _god,_ I would kill for your rosół,” Jon suddenly groaned. Almost immediately, his fingers snapped up to brush the corner of his mouth as if he wanted to forcibly cover it.

Martin stared at him for a few moments.

“Sorry. Sorry, sorry. We’ll just .. add that to the secret pile. Chicken soup sounds fantastic.”

Right, apparently he had known Jon well enough to have made chicken soup for him before. He only called it ‘rosół’ when he was trying to impress, because honestly, it wasn’t all that traditional or high-quality enough to be called by the usual name. Just some broth and chicken in a pot, sometimes with pasta and vegetables if he had it lying around. Still, he stared at Jon in aghast dumbfoundment.

“You’re not very good at keeping secrets, are you?” Martin asked in a light-hearted attempt at humor. _Let’s pretend things are normal?_ “Or keeping your mouth shut. In general.”

He saw a flash of slightly yellowed teeth from behind Jon’s hair. “Christ, you’ve got no idea.”

Martin disappeared back into the kitchen to get a glass of water, before delivering it back to Jon. He drank it down easily. Every movement of his seemed jerky, as if he were planning on dashing anytime soon. “I’ve got a cane stashed around here somewhere,” Martin admitted, “Used to be my mum’s. Would that help? How’s your leg?”

Jon’s hand went to pat at it. “That would be – right, I think ‘more generous than I deserve’ is probably too pitiful, but it would be great. Thanks.” He reached up and pushed his hair back. “Couldn’t trouble you for some sort of hair tie, could I?”

Martin went up and patted his curls, firmly located on his head. “Sorry. I’m a shorn sheep. If you want to take a shower, though, it’s in my bedroom. I’ll … try to find something for you to wear, I guess?”

He had thought about that when he’d been preparing soup. As for now, he had no idea how long Jon would be staying in his flat, though his approximate idea was no more than overnight. Still, it seemed a decent human rights violation to make him sit around in tattered, bloody clothing. Besides, Martin wasn’t exactly sure what he thought Jon would do. Stare really hard at himself in the mirror. Summon Bloody Mary, maybe. Grow a couple of pairs of eyes.

Jon was stunned nonetheless. He choked on his water and placed the glass down. “Oh! That would be … _yes,_ please. Yes. I feel awful.” His fingers went to curl in his hair. “I’ll cut this. At some point, when I’m reasonably certain I won’t chop off my ear.”

“You’re a little … fuzzy, then?”

“Fuzzy. Yes, I guess so. I feel … _weak,_ ” Jon grunted distastefully, pushing himself up to a standing position. As he tried his weight on his bad leg, Jon winced so badly that Martin immediately bustled off to take the cane he’d pulled out from the next room. Jon wrapped his fingers around it. Martin’s mother had been a much taller woman than Jon was, but he seemed to use it easily enough. “Thanks. Much better. Just, uh, through this way, then?”

It was nice to know that Jon didn’t actually have the blueprints to his flat memorized. “Yeah. Towel’s all set up for you.”

He waited until he heard the shower run before he entered into his bedroom. Thankfully, the bathroom door was shut. Jon’s clothing was in a bloody, tattered mess on the floor. Martin scooped it up and tossed it in the bin. There was no salvaging it, really. As he did, he noticed a hole right in the center of Jon’s shirt, right in the center of all the blood –

There was _no way_ that was a bullet wound. Jon wouldn’t be up and walking around, had it been.

Into the bin _that_ went.

From there, Martin disappeared to his closet. Nothing that he wore on a daily basis had any chance of fitting him. He thought of Melanie, _maybe,_ because she was relatively the same build as Jon if a fair bit taller, but it was definitely weird to call her up and ask her to deliver some clothing over. Instead, he reached for his robe and laid it out on his bed. That would do, if drag on the floor a little.

He went back to attend to the soup. Jon took a long shower. Martin didn’t mind, particularly, the man looked like he needed it. Eventually, the water turned off and he heard the cane start to slide against the wooden floor of Martin’s flat. He heard his couch sink down again.

Martin found one of the largest bowls he had and poured the soup into it. Jon looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in a while. 

“Oh,” he uttered softly as he walked into the living room.

“I. I found a few paperclips, hope you don’t mind,” Jon apologized. His hair was pulled up haphazardly on the back of his head in a loose bun. Martin could properly see his face, now, saw the scars that dotted his skin like paint. Saw his hazel eyes. Saw how awfully tired he looked. Saw how badly he needed to moisturize, not that Martin was going to judge.

_Can you stop being hopelessly gay for one second and not think that the strange monster-adjacent man you brought home is handsome?_ Martin asked himself, frozen in the doorframe. _Seriously. One full second._

Seeing Jon’s face in full was strange, though. He had the damnedest feeling, now, that he _did_ know him from somewhere. Jon’s face was hardly one that someone forgot. Martin also noticed that he was starting to shiver, even if the flat was well enough warm. Hm.

“Oh, no. It’s okay. Um, the robe fits, then? Good. Bet it’s more comfortable than the shirt held together by dried blood.”

Jon smiled and chuckled at him hollowly. “Right. Yes.”

“Um, I happened to notice there was a bullet hole in it – “

“Secret pile.” Jon cut him off a little too quickly. “Sorry.” He reached for the collar of the robe, as if to show Martin that he was indeed un-shot, seemed to realized that would recall essentially disrobing to the waist, and thought better of it. “I’m okay, though. Um, that smells lovely.”

Yes, he had soup in his hands that was quickly growing too hot. He stepped over to the couch. As he did, he realized he had filled up the bowl up a bit too much and splashed a bit on the floor, right next to Jon’s feet, as he put it down. Instinctively, Jon jumped up to his feet, no more than a few inches away from Martin.

He landed on his bad leg and groaned, causing March to reflexively reach up and put a hand on the side of his chest to keep him steady. “Hang on, are you – “ No. No, _that_ was not normal, what he was feeling, right in the middle of his ribcage, and Martin blinked at him. “Are you missing … a rib?”

His chest was just a few inches away from Jon, legs trapped between the coffee table and the couch. Jon’s eyes flicked down to look at Martin’s hand, and then back up at his face. An expression of frustrated helplessness crossed his face. “ _Two._ Yes, yeah.”

“Oh.” He went silent, but didn’t move his hand away. So there was a man with a bullet wound in his shirt but no bullet wound on his person, a burned up hand, strange scars, and now missing two ribs. Jon seemed to realize how strange this was. He was clearly biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from speaking. “Okay. Uh, that seems … bad.”

“Yeah. I think – I don’t know what’s there. A lung, maybe?”

“I mean, both sides of your body. So. Yeah, probably. And your heart’s on that side, too, probably not good to be so exposed like that.” Martin removed his hand from the side of his robe. “Pile of secrets?”

Jon’s face was miserable. He half-shut his eyes, lowering his gaze to Martin’s chest, and Martin somehow felt for the poor man. Bad idea or no, he was slowly beginning to _trust_ him, trust that he didn’t _want_ to hide all these things. That he desperately wanted to someone to confide in, but he just couldn’t.

Martin wasn’t certain how much of this was his own logical thought and how much of it was projecting a ‘handsome kind stranger’ trope on someone who very well might have been looking to slit his throat in his sleep. Christ, he even found himself focusing on the way that Jon seemed cold, still. He didn’t think of himself as an exceptionally kind of caring man before, and yet somehow, this man seemed to compel it from him.

“Pile of secrets,” Jon agreed as he sat himself back down on the couch. “Sorry.” He reached for the bowl of soup and settled it on his lap, dipping his spoon into it. He ate contemplatively. Martin walked over to the coat rack, picked up his coat (a rather bulky thing, even on him) and gently put it around Jon’s shoulders. It swamped him almost comically, but Jon tugged it a little closer to his body regardless. “Thanks.”

Martin got his own bowl of soup and sat a little distance from Jon. It was decent soup, all things considered, but Jon seemed to genuinely relish it. “One thing,” Martin finally asked. “Could you tell me _one thing,_ at least? I’m not asking you to – to bear your life story with me, but I’ve – you’ve got to realize how this looks. I don’t _do_ things like this, you know, I don’t bring strange men home –” A blush sprouted across his face, juvenile and awkward and _stupid, you’re allowed to bring all the strange men home you want, Martin_. _Poor phrasing._ “I don’t get involved in things like this. So I’m a bit out of my depth, you see.”

Dropping the spoon back into the bowl, Jon went quiet for a while. “I’m trying to think of an answer that won’t give you about a thousand more questions,” he admitted, “But you’re right. You do deserve _something_ while I figure all this out.”

He trilled his lips in thought, before nodding. “Oh … _okay._ Right, so I do have powers. As you’ve seen. Those … _powers_ are connected to a certain place. Now that I’m out of that place, they’re – they’re waning, I think? I’ve still got some of them, but I’m not exactly the – the Eyeclops, or Oculothorax. Or whatever you’ve been calling me. And I don’t think they’ll go away completely, not when that place is still standing.”

Ah, so he was back on this. “It _isn’t_ standing, though,” Martin insisted. “I watched it burn down, you don’t understand. It’s all _gone.’_

‘It _can’t_ be. Then that would mean – “ Jon cut himself off, shaking his head stubbornly. “Part of it still stands, I’m _certain_ of it, Martin.” His voice lowered as he stared at the floor between them. When he opened his mouth to croak next, Martin got the idea that it was very much not for him to hear. “It has to be.”

There was clearly only one way to sort this out. Not that Martin was particularly keen on going back to it, but if Jon was going to fixate on this, then – “We’ll go in the morning.” He gestured with his chin outside. “I don’t work until the evening and it’s too dark to go now. And then you can see, Jon. It’s all _gone.”_ His eyes lighted on Jon in his robe. “I, um, there’s a secondhand shop down the street. I’ll get you something you can wear.”

“You really don’t have to – I’ll pay you back, for that. All this. Tomorrow, when we go, I’ll just stop at a bank. My account ought to still be open.”

“Oh? Didn’t realize eye monsters cared about savings. What, are you saving for retirement?”

Jokes were coming easier to him. Feeding him, giving him some clothing and letting him rest, made Jon a lot less scary. He was starting to feel pity for him, even, instead of abject fright. Maybe it was bad that Melanie and Georgie had left – they were more suspicious of him than Martin clearly was, and maybe suspicion was good, here.

But … as pathetic as it was, Martin was glad he was talking to another person. He was socializing. It was _nice,_ having someone over, if a little pathetic that this was what it took. “So, er.” Martin offered, “Monsters – and things, paranormal things, I guess – they’re real?”

“Yes. That, um, do you – do you need a minute?”

“No, no. I mean, honestly, not that I’m thanking you for it or anything, but I think you being in my dreams – sort of prepared me, a little?” Martin continued at his soup. “Not that I thought they were real in, you know, real-life. But it doesn’t seem like such a gigantic leap, in retrospect. I – sorry,” Martin apologized, “Does it bother you when I call you a monster?

“You’ve seen me, Martin. It’s not _strictly_ inaccurate.”

“Well, it wasn’t. But you seem – I mean, more-or-less normal now. Just a person, then? Right. I’ll call you just a person.”

“What every man loves to be called. _Just_ a person,” Jon remarked wryly as he dunk his spoon into his bowl. Still, Martin supposed that he did seem grateful. “And I don’t find …” he sighed, looking down at his bowl. “It wasn’t an insult, Martin, calling me a monster. There’s a part of me that would go right back to it, if I could. Most of the ones that I met – they _liked_ it.” 

“Oh.” There wasn’t any time to hash that out, certainly. “Any nice ones?”

“Ah. Sorry, no, absolutely none of them are nice. Well, perhaps some _are,_ but none of the ones that I’ve met could be called ‘nice’.”

That was something to consider, Martin supposed as he fussed with the fabric on his trouser knees. He heard Jon eat until his spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl, and he brushed the back of his hand across his lips. _Nothing to be said for manners._ “It was lovely, thanks.” Martin watched as he blinked his eyes, and he was surprised to see that he was tired again. “Christ. Sorry. Knackered, I don’t know why – “ Jon cut himself off into a large yawn which ended in a displeased grunt.

“It’s okay. D’you want me to let you sleep?” To Martin’s question, Jon nodded and put the bowl on the table. Martin reached for the blanket that had almost entirely fallen on the floor and put it next to Jon. He was standing in front of Jon, again, near-on towering over the seated, shorter man. Jon looked up at him with Martin’s jacket thrown carelessly about his shoulders.

Although Martin was grateful to know the answer to one question – that Jon _did_ have powers at one point, but they were limited with being out of the Institute – he was more interested in knowing how Jon knew him, once upon a time. Because Jon was _looking_ at him like he was devastated and heartbroken and unbearably, immeasurably fond all at once. Martin didn’t think he’d ever been that important to anyone before.

“Were we …” Martin started, before he trailed off into nothingness. _Christ, what do you even want to know? Were we friends? Were we together? Did you mean something to me_? “Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you. You’ve done more than enough.” The bowl was pushed to the side as Jon pulled his legs up on the sofa, tucking them underneath him. They curled quite easily underneath Martin’s jacket. Already, Jon looked a hell of a lot better than when Martin had initially found him. That hardly meant he looked _good –_ still in poor enough health to be stared at in the street, but not in poor enough health to be outright ignored, perhaps. He curled one arm around his knees and took a deep breath, nothing more than a sigh. “I won’t be in your hair any longer than I must. Please, at any time, when you’re sick of me, kick me out and I’ll figure it out.”

That made Martin chuckle as he reached for Jon’s bowl. “What, just when it’s getting good?” He offered light-heartedly. “If I send you away now, I’m just going to wonder about this for the rest of my life.”

“Right. Right,” Jon remarked with a chuckle as he looked down at his blankets. Martin disappeared back into the kitchen and started to do the washing up. When he came back out, Jon was asleep under the blankets again, curled up into a tight ball. His hood was thrown over his face, obscuring most of his forehead. Martin hovered over him, inspecting his skin carefully for extra eyes. Finding none, he went back to his own bedroom and prepared for sleep.

It was a lot to take in. So much that Martin was faintly numb with it all.

He curled up on his side and hugged a pillow to his chest, burying his face in it. With his free hand, he reached for his mobile and texted a series of paragraph-long texts updating Melanie and Georgie about the situation. No response was given, and Martin realized it was near-on 2 AM. They were asleep. He’d catch up with them later.

His own eyes shut, and Martin, exhausted from the sheer amount of socialization, fell easily enough to sleep. Just before he fell entirely unconscious, Martin felt a burst of hope that perhaps he wouldn’t have a dream with Jon in it tonight.

-

What beautiful music it was.

It was what Martin heard before he really became _anything_ else around him, anything more concrete than hazy blackness. It was a delicate, plucking sort of music. He tried to pick apart the instruments – a … a harp, maybe? Something else with strings? It wasn’t angelic, not quite, but it was pleasantly enigmatic and melodic. People wrote things to that sort of music – operas, memoirs, epics.

There wasn’t much else to look at, wherever he was. Blackness. The only light above him was hazy in nature. He couldn’t make out what it was, exactly, beyond eight separate circles of light hovering just over his head. When he stared down at the floor, Martin only saw a mass of fibers all interlocked together. He blinked in confusion.

He realized he was swaying lightly to the music in his head. It seemed to fill him, after all, impossible not to wobble at least a little to it. He tried to take a step forward, and he could not. Indeed, he seemed rooted right to the spot. _Oh, this is fine,_ Martin thought to himself, _this is just your old reoccurring nightmare, you’ve had this before. You’re just stuck in a web._ He stopped trying to force his limbs to move, instead remaining rooted to the spot. _At least there’s no –_

No, there was somebody. Somebody skirting the edge of darkness, just where the dim light above him couldn’t touch. “Jon?” Martin called out into the darkness. “Jon, you’re not exactly scary anymore.” It wasn’t that he saw any sort of _person,_ but the edges of the darkness seemed to waver. Someone was walking very quickly just along the edges of it. “Jon, you’re _literally_ sleeping on my c – “

It was not Jon.

The figure stepped out into the relative light as the music swelled behind her. She was tall. Much taller than a human really ought to be, Martin considered. He was suddenly frozen to the spot, by … yes, there was that familiar friend. Fear.

Her legs were long and angular and didn’t bend where Martin imagined legs ought to bend. She ambled towards him more than truly walked, and it didn’t seem like she had any blood in her body. When she reached forward with almost jaundiced fingers to stroke Martin’s cheek, his suspicions were confirmed. So cold. Clammy, even.

He was scared to raise his eyes to her, but eventually, she solved that for him. She manipulated his chin until Martin was staring directly up into her face.

Whatever color her hair had once been, Martin couldn’t see it now. Most of her face was covered in cobwebs, so thickly intertwined that he couldn’t see where her face began. One eye, entirely black, glared down at him with a hungry intensity. The other eye was covered with a make-do sash of cobwebs. Martin didn’t think that there was anything in there, given how spiders kept crawling in and out the socket.

The bulk of the cobwebs seemed to center on the side of her head, as if sprouting there like some sort of twisted flower. Spiders seemed to dig further into the web further than it seemed her skull would allow.

Martin had never been scared of spiders and had never really understood the lack of appeal. They were helpful and skittish. But now …

A frightened groan died in his throat as he tried to pull back from her touch, and she only laughed at him quietly. It rasped out like dust.

“My, my,” said the spider to the fly, “That Jon really has you caught in his web, hasn’t he?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None

They were walking together. Martin had taken to turning his body somewhat towards Jon as they continued down the street. Jon walked briskly for a man who seemed like he was generally on the verge of death, and Martin often caught his gaze turning to the cloudy London sky as if it confused him. Irrationally, Martin wished he could give a bright blue one to him instead, but Jon didn’t seem fussed either way.

The previous night’s nightmare weighed on him a little, but Martin tried not to put too much stock in it. Unlike the Eyeclops dreams, _this_ one seemed to be a direct correlation with his subconscious. Strange man comes into his life, strange man somehow starts to stay in his flat, Martin becomes mildly worried that strange man is going to kill him in his sleep. Nightmares were inevitable. It was nothing unusual. Besides, there was never any reason to be scared of spiders. He’d always had an overactive imagination on the best of times.

Together, they walked in silence. People gave the cane a wide berth, which Martin was simultaneously annoyed by and grateful for. Jon was wearing something … decently suitable, after Martin had mended the worn elbows of the shirt Jon had brought back from a charity shop. Frankly, Martin thought it made him look _distinguished._ Like some professor. Granted, a professor who was holding most of his slightly-damp hair in a large, messy bun on the top of his head. A professor with strange circular scars dotting the side of his face.

Jon hadn’t expressed thanks. Hadn’t said much of anything, actually. Martin figured he hadn’t slept well, or enough, or something. The man seemed tightly wound with a burning anxiety, a fierce hunger that Martin didn’t know how to address. “The rescue teams are probably out now,” Martin advised, mostly as a way to break the silence between them. “Not that I advocate getting in the soot or anything.”

“The soot?” Jon’s head turned towards him. “What soot?”

“You know. From the fire.”

“Right,” Jon returned, distracted, “The fire.” And then silence fell between them again as Jon returned to his thoughts, whatever they were. Martin wasn’t convinced that Jon had actually listened to him.

_Oh … kay,_ Martin thought to himself as they continued down the busy London pavement. _Not too late to push him into the ashes and run, Martin._ Alternatively, Martin wished he could just crack his skull open and peer inside his thoughts. He wanted to know all that Jon knew. _Particularly_ what Jon knew about him.

What Jon was going to do after this, Martin didn’t know. He had work in the afternoon and wasn’t expressly comfortable with leaving Jon in his flat alone, but Georgie and Melanie had both gallantly offered to sit with him for the night. It felt somewhat condescending to give a mid-thirties man a babysitter, but it was even more insulting to call Jon a safety risk. Babysitter it was.

His hair was pulled back from his face, still, strands of it wispy and gray in the wind. Jon’s face was determined from behind his glasses, and Martin realized that he’d never had to give Jon any sort of direction. He just sort of … knew. Knew all the way up until they were turning the corner and they were faced with what Martin already knew existed: the ashes of a once-standing building.

All the responder teams had left by now; Martin saw a bit of police tape fluttering in the wind but nothing else. It seemed … _darker_ around here though, and still smelled of ashy smoke. Martin coughed into his windbreaker. People’s heads rubbernecked towards the structure remains as they walked by it, clearly entranced by the great fire that had once erupted there. _If only,_ they thought in their heads, _I’d been here to see it._

Jon stood on his feet. He was staring at it, mouth somewhat agape.

“Well – “ Martin offered, trying to be gentle but coming off as faintly annoyed, “There it is. Told you.”

Gripping his cane in his hand, Jon started to walk again towards the building. His hand seemed completely devoid of blood with how tightly he was squeezing the handle. Without thinking, Jon stepped off the curb and onto the busy London street.

“ _Oi, you -- !”_ Martin hissed, reaching forward and yanking Jon from the back of his shirt. A car zoomed in front of Jon without incident, but Jon nearly tripped on his back as he stepped back into relative safety. For a second, Jon was standing too close against Martin’s chest. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Jon didn’t react. He didn’t say a word. He just kept staring off at the building. The street seemed clear for the moment, and Martin released Jon to allow him to walk across right in front of the remains of the Magnus Institute.

His eyes were on the ground, staring back down into the deep recesses of the building. Must’ve had a basement or something, Martin figured, all libraries had basements. An archive or something to keep the _really_ old stuff. “Don’t go down there.” His warning was terse. “You’ll get yourself filthy.”

Jon obeyed, but still did approach the outer perimeter of the building. Rock was still there, unable to be burned fully but nevertheless stained black. His hand reached out, trembling, as he brushed some of it away. There was the symbol that Martin had seen earlier, the funny little owl. That must’ve been the figurehead on the top of the building. An owl seemed a fitting mascot for a library, Martin figured.

He pulled his hand back and wiped it over his trousers. “It’s gone.” The voice was no more than a croak. Jon was hunched over slightly, as if standing up to his full height gave him too much pain. “I can’t … I can’t _feel_ it anymore, Martin.”

Well-acquainted with strange ramblings at this point, Martin simply nodded. “It’s ‘cause it burned down,” he answered flatly, “Y’know. You were there.”

Maybe he was being a bit bitchy. Jon was clearly having some trouble processing it. But he didn’t know how many other ways he could insist that _The Magnus Institute had burned down._

Martin slowly saw Jon turn around to face him. His face had gotten smeared with soot because of how close he’d gotten, but there were two distinct track marks down his face. Tears were flowing readily, gathering in the corners of his eyes and down his chin. Stunned, Martin couldn’t help but recall his own inexplicable crying at the sight of the burned down building. That Jon also felt the connection didn’t surprise him, at this point. “Are you – are you okay?”

Jon didn’t respond. He was staring at Martin with wide, frightened eyes as if he were looking for answers. As if he were trying so hard not to start sobbing. As if he had no idea what was going to happen next.

Martin wasn’t a heartless man.

He stepped forward and put an arm around Jon’s shoulders. Jon realized what was happening immediately as he wrapped his arms around Martin’s midsection in return. He sobbed freely into Martin’s chest, to the point where Martin felt his jumper start to get soaked through. Martin didn’t stop him, instead comfortingly rubbing up and down his back. Jon was still cold and cried like his heart had been broken.

He had no idea what this place meant to this man, or even who this man was, or if he was safe, or if he was reliable, but Martin knew very well the sensation of being overwhelmed and alone.

Jon was saying something into his jumper that Martin couldn’t quite grasp. It sounded like … _it’s gone, I’ve lost it, I can’t go back, it’s gone, I’ve lost it, I can’t go back, it’s gone, I’ve lost it, I can’t go back._

Strange. Martin had instinctively felt that this building was evil, and Jon seemed to cry for it as if he lost his safe haven. Maybe Martin was wrong, he thought to himself, as he squinted up at it. Maybe it had been a good place, once? _No,_ Martin’s gut returned to him, _evil. Evil building._

“It’s okay. It’s okay, got you,” Martin was cooing at him. Meaningless platitudes, to be sure, but Jon was holding onto him so tightly that his cane had fallen on the cement. People were _staring._ Jon may not have looked like a wild madman roaming the streets anymore, but someone sobbing loudly in public was enough to draw attention. “’s okay, ‘s okay. Look at you, making a fuss like this. No reason. ‘s okay.”

Finally, after at least ten minutes had passed, the tears started to recede. Jon’s face was a blotchy mess when he stepped back, his glasses shoved far against his head. He re-adjusted them appropriately and cleared his throat. With a wince, he leaned down and picked up his cane. “Sorry,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

Martin looked down at his sweater. It looked more-or-less like he’d gotten a water balloon hit to the chest. “Don’t worry about it, man?”

“I, um,” Jon explained, with a gesture towards the ashy ground, “I used to … work here? For years. Years and years.” There was a pause. “I didn’t leave the building for six months.”

“T-trapped?” Martin looked towards the basement again. The place did seem very … _big,_ didn’t it? Much bigger than it would seem from the outside. And Martin realized he couldn’t quite see the bottom, though it may have been because, after a certain depth, everything just seemed inky black. “They kept you here?”

“No. No, I wanted – I wanted to be – here.”

“You _wanted_ to be trapped?”

Jon’s eyes snapped up at him, shiny with anger. “I wasn’t _trapped,”_ he grunted, and that voice … didn’t really seem like Jon’s at all. Something darker, something with more power. “I _wanted_ to be there. But – “ His head drifted off towards the building again. “I never thought … with all that I knew, I never thought that I’d be out. That I’d be like … _this,_ again,” he stated, gesturing to himself.

“Not a monster?” Jon winced at Martin’s question, and didn’t respond. Martin was pretty certain that he knew the answer to all that, though. 

It was more information he’d gotten about Jon than he’d ever known. At the very least, some things made more sense – being trapped in the Institute like that would make anyone a bit odd. That Jon _liked_ being there was something he hadn’t considered. Why would anyone like being an Eyeclops? Jon had seemed _miserable_ in his dreams, but – he recalled how the monster hadn’t particularly cared when he fell out the door. How the monster had just cared about _knowing_ what was going to happen.

“What did you do?” Martin asked in a soft voice, looked down at him.

Jon was staring down into the ashy black pit again. Martin noticed that his hands were still trembling. “I was an Archiv – “ The word stuck in his throat, and Martin was worried he was about to start crying again. Instead, he shook his head and turned back towards the street. “It doesn’t matter. Over now.”

Although Martin wanted to argue that it was bloody well _not_ over, he wasn’t going to press. Jon, whatever he had been through, had been through a _lot._ Hell, Martin felt himself getting anxious just standing next to this place, and he had no idea why. If they got back to the flat now though, he could brew a kettle and warm up a blanket for Jon.

Jon sniffed once, hard, pulled himself together, and started to walk away. He didn’t look back at the ashy black remains of the building as he did so. Jon was still wearing Martin’s jacket; Martin hadn’t exactly seen him take it off yet. Martin wondered if Jon even knew that he was wearing it. It wasn’t like he minded much.

Again, they walked in silence, but Martin noted that it was different now. Before, the silence had been tense and sullen. Jon had been so certain that he’d come back to a standing building, while Martin had been frankly annoyed that Jon wanted to return here so badly. Now, Jon seemed exhausted and cried out, but also … less tightly wound. Looser.

Martin, meanwhile, was _just_ as confused as before but momentarily less annoyed. They walked back through the streets together until the Institute was out of sight and, at least for Martin, out of mind.

His predominant theory now, as near as he could figure, was an evil boss that was also a psychopath that had kept Jon hostage down there under threat. In which case, they absolutely _had_ to go to the police. But it sounded so dramatic and fantastical that Martin knew he’d die of shame before he would ever voice the concern. Jon knew what happened, and Jon would tell him when he felt good and ready. Martin didn’t need to get his fingers involved in every little situation.

He only hoped that Jon wasn’t the only one kept down there.

Just before they got to Martin’s block of flats, Jon stopped and stood dead. His head jerked up like he was a dog on the scent of something. Martin raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“Someone’s following us.” The sentence was shoved through the corner of Jon’s mouth, and a chill raced up Martin’s spine.

_Shit. Should’ve known. We were crying out in the middle of broad bloody daylight for hours, felt like. Sitting ducks, we were,_ Martin thought, as if he’d ever been stalked a day in his life and knew exactly what to do about it. He looked down at Jon questioningly and then around.

Martin’s row of flats was not _the best._ Even with two to four jobs at any given time, Martin was barely making rent in the capitalist nightmare of London, England. Nobody had ever broken into his flat, though it did happen regularly enough. People ambled by with not a care in the world, barely taking time to glare down at the pair that had stopped in the middle of the pavement. Martin didn’t have a clue about who might be following them.

Jon, on the other hand, seemed to be getting a pretty decent idea. His head turned from side to side, brown eyes penetrating into each of them in turn. As he did, Martin saw that a small … _smile_ was growing across his face.

It wasn’t a very kind smile.

Finally, Jon started to walk. It was so sudden and so intent that Martin almost fell over himself trying to catch up with him as he walked against the direction of pedestrian traffic. The sea parted for him as he stopped himself in front of one man – besuited, hair slicked back, the sort that spoke their coffee orders slowly enough as if Martin couldn’t comprehend how to understand the word _macchiato._

_This_ was the man following them? Martin nevertheless stood patiently behind Jon. Jon looked up at him, the small, crazed smile starting to spread across his face. _Hungry,_ Martin realized with a start, _he looks hungry._ The businessman, appropriately startled by someone coming up to them in the middle of the pavement, with people passing by them on both sides, stopped and tilted his head to the side.

“Why are you following us?” Jon demanded, an angry wisp of a man. The businessman blinked down at him, and then up at Martin as if Martin were his handler.

Martin wasn’t sure what was going on, but he wasn’t _exactly_ one for conflict. He averted his eyes shyly and looked down at Jon. “ _Jon,”_ he grunted out of the side of his mouth. “ _Let’s go.”_

“I’m not – I’m not following you, sorry,” the stranger returned. Jon seemed insistent, though. Martin started to wonder if maybe Jon just knew something he didn’t. After all, Jon seemed to know _everybody_ they’d come into contact with – who was to say that Jon didn’t know him, too? They didn’t seem the sort to run in the same circles, _but …_ the businessman tried to step to the side, and Jon jutted his cane out to prevent him.

Something came over Jon, then. Something so very competent and so very _ravenous_ flashed in Jon’s eyes, and he saw the besuited man actually flinch in front of them. Jon loosened his grasp on the cane and stepped forward.

“ _Tell me,”_ Jon compelled in a voice as ominous and natural as thunder, “ _Why you’re following us.”_

The answer was immediate – and frightened. “I’m not – I’m not following you, I’m just taking the long way home,” the businessman started to gush, “I’m cheating on my wife a-and I think she’s got a private detective after me so I – I take a few extra turns when I’m going to my girlfriend’s so that – so that they don’t find me, you know, and it’s really – I mean, I’ve just about proved to her that I’m _not_ cheating, and I can’t have her finding out, because she _is_ pregnant and I wouldn’t want to stress out the baby, because it’s all just a bit of – “

Jon held up a hand and he fell silent.

“Oh my _god,_ you’re such a _prick,”_ Martin suddenly burst forth, taking a step besides Jon. “Your poor wife! She’s having your _baby,_ man, you can’t just – “

“Let’s go, Martin.” Jon took hold of Martin’s sleeve and pulled him to the side, before turning his back on the stranger. “He’s not following us.” A pause, a nervous laugh. “I must be paranoid. That’s all.”

As Jon turned his back on him, Martin noticed a dark mark on the back of his jumper – a spider. A big one, too. Martin instinctively reached forward and swept it off his back. It careened off of him, falling (not fatally, Martin hoped) to the pavement below. He was too stunned to do much else than follow him.

“Um, what was that?” Martin asked when they’d reached a healthy distance away from the stranger. “That thing you did.”

Jon was clearly chewing on the answer in an expression that Martin was quickly becoming to realize as _Should-I-Tell-Him-Or-Will-He-Freak-Out?_ “I didn’t think I’d still be able to do it. And it, ah, the unfortunate combination of taking more out of me than usual _and_ not giving me what I wanted out of it. I don’t think I’ll be able to do it much longer,” he confessed. For the first time, Martin could see that he seemed _much_ more exhausted than when they’d first began their walk. His cane was dragging on the ground somewhat. His free hand went to press against his stomach, as if suppressing the sound of a growl. Martin heard nothing. “But I’ve – because I used to work in the Institute, I learned how to, sort of, get people to tell me what I wanted to know. So to speak.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Like being really, really charismatic?”

Jon genuinely laughed at him for that, even if it was a little breathless. “Sort of.”

Right. Martin tilted his head to the ground. Another weird power that Jon was capable of doing, although this one seemed much more … _sinister_ than the eye thing or the knowing-things-thing. Maybe the powers were draining out of him, Martin didn’t know, but Jon seemed relatively more docile as they continued back to Martin’s flat. “Why did you think he was following us?” Martin eventually questioned as he fiddled with his keys.

Jon gave a shrug of his shoulders, suddenly sheepish. “He reminded me of someone,” he confessed, “That I used to know. And, just for a second, I thought – thought that I _Knew,_ but I think he just reminded me of someone.”

“But he wasn’t.”

“No. He wasn’t. The man I thought he was is gone. Dead, actually, so I don’t know why I – well, it’s just paranoia. Fussing.” Jon was dismissive as Martin opened his door and ushered Jon inside. “I feel as if I should mention, because – well, presuming you won’t kick me out tonight and will let me stay one more night, at least – I’m not aware of anyone after me.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be, would you? Trapped in the Magnus Institute for six months. Unless it was the person who put you there?”

“Not _trapped.”_ Martin stepped just inside after him and locked up for the night. He was aware of Jon standing perfectly still in the middle of his living room. “The man who, ah, the reason I was there,” Jon uttered, “Looked like the man I thought was following us.”

Oh.

Then he was dead. And Jon had been left to wander the Magnus Institute until – until he died, probably, just a frightening monster covered in eyes. While that didn’t explain how he knew Martin, it did make him much more sympathetic. Martin frowned and turned towards Jon. “Oh. Okay. Ehm, you can stay here again tonight if you’d like. You’re not exactly – “ Martin relaxed into a joking smile. “I mean, I’ve had worse houseguests.” Like he had had _any_ houseguests. “Melanie and Georgie’ll be over when I leave for work.”

Jon seemed grateful enough at that. He settled into a small smile as he sat on the sofa. “Oh? Where do you work, Martin?”

“Right now – er, in an hour, I suppose,” Martin corrected, “Coffeeshop. I’ll be out after, though, I’ve got a shift doing night security. And in the morning, I work at a café. Tiny thing, really, more of a – I guess it’s more of a diner? It’s cozy.”

“That’s … quite a lot, isn’t it?”

“Not _really._ I mean, they’re all part-time, mostly, so – I never finished secondary school, and it’s hard to find most places willing to overlook that.” And he had been considering taking classes to finish up, he _honestly_ had, but his usual work hours got in the way.

There was a small smile on Jon’s face. “Could always lie on your CV.”

Oh. That hadn’t really occurred to Martin before. Or – perhaps it had, but he hadn’t actually … gone _through_ with it? He racked his brain for a moment. No, the thought had definitely been in his head, once upon a time, but he’d seen his CV recently. Completely honest, all of it. And it wasn’t like lying bothered him. It was for a good cause – not getting evicted. Still, for whatever reason, he hadn’t ever _acted_ on that thought in his head. At least, not that he could remember.

“Maybe. What does it look like I went to school for?”

The smile grew, a little bit wider. _He’s got a nice smile, when he’s joking around,_ Martin told himself, immediately followed by: _Stop it, stop ogling._ “Parapsychology, maybe?”

_That_ drew a laugh out of Martin. “Well, I’ve got to say that I have learned a hell of a lot about it in the past day or so.” No, he’d pick something more practical. Something he knew a lot about. Something like …

Well, that was depressing.

“I’ll think about it later. Look, you’re falling asleep on your feet. Why don’t you go lay down?”

“I’ve been sleeping too much.”

“You’ve been a burrowing eye monster for six months. You can get some rest. Come on, then,” Martin urged as he put an arm around his middle, guiding him towards the sofa. The cane fell against the floor, but Jon didn’t resist. He did seem a strange sort of exhausted, like his body was just about to crumple over. “I’ve got to go get ready for work, anyway.”

Jon sat down on the sofa and looked up at him. There was a bleary bloodshot quality to his eyes, Weak, still, needed to rest. Martin wasn’t going to push him much more. Before he pulled away, though, Jon started to chuckle again. It was a deep, rumbling sound in his chest as he pulled his jacket closer to him. “You’re so kind,” he half-muttered, “You’re still so kind.”

“Still?”

But Jon wasn’t going to comment further on it. He curled his knees up to his chest with disturbing ease and tucked his head against the pillow. A few moments later, the quilt was tugged around him and Martin saw his muscles relax in sleep.

_Still._ That was strange. Nice to know that, however Jon knew him, he had been kind. Shaking his head, Martin went to go change in his bedroom. He had just yanked his uniform shirt on when he saw a spider clinging to the edge of the sleeve. “Want to go on a trip?” Martin teased it, gingerly pulling it off and letting it scurry away. He caught sight of his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

_Tell me,_ Jon had said, in a strange, rumbling voice. And that guy had just admitted what was probably his worst secret in the world to him. What a gift that was, having people just _listen_ to you like that. Martin cleared his throat and looked in the mirror. Lowering his voice several octaves, Martin thundered, “ _Tell me your darkest secret.”_

Nothing. Well, it was hardly going to work on himself, was it? And it felt _very_ silly besides. Martin shrugged the rest of his shirt on and went to the bedroom, staring out his window.

His window overlooked the next complex of flats on the street over. Their windows were a little larger, leading Martin to usually awkwardly being able to peer into several bedrooms at once. Most people had the sense to keep them shut. The man right across the street had his open, though. Martin could see him. He was watching a movie on his television.

A whim seized him. Obviously, he couldn’t compel anything out of him by then. Martin approached his window and looked straight across the street, into the window, at the man. Keeping his voice low, Martin commanded, “ _Turn it off.”_

Almost immediately, the man stood from his bed.

He didn’t cross over to his telly, but he did placed a hand on his duvet like he was maintaining his balance. He looked around the room in concern. _Weird,_ Martin thought to himself, before commanding again, “ _Turn. It. Off.”_

Stiffly, the man appropriately marched to the television. The screen went black.

Oh.

Oh, okay.

His neighbour blinked several times, as if surprised at himself. His arms went up to wrap around his chest protectively, before he walked over to the windows. Suddenly, the blinds swung shut and Martin couldn’t look into his flat any longer.

That was … unusual.

But probably, altogether, Martin considered, _probably_ a coincidence. It would be ridiculous to think otherwise, wouldn’t it? To think that he had some sort of grand powers of persuasion. Maybe he just didn’t like the show. Either way, it wasn’t worth spending valuable brain energy on, and he had to get to work.

He reached for his mobile to call Melanie and Georgie to invite them over. He, Martin considered, was going to have a very _normal_ day at work, and then he was going to come back and make certain his former-Eye-monster-friend had something to eat.

-

“They’re just sort of hugging, Basira, I don’t know,” Daisy muttered from her spot at a corner café. She knew well enough how to hold a stakeout without letting a single soul know she was there. A laptop open in front of her, a beanie covering most of her hair, sunglasses covering a large portion of her face. Even if they did notice, they would never be able to remember her enough to give a detailed description. “It’s _kind of_ weird.”

“Hugging. Like,” Basira considered on the other end of the phone, “Guilty hugging?”

“Dunno. The short one’s crying a hell of a lot.”

“Guilty crying,” Basira further concluded.

Daisy wasn’t too sure. Regardless, after some minutes, they separated and began to walk back. Daisy immediately shut her laptop and started to follow them at a discreet distance.

They’d had one of them watching the remains of the Magnus Institute since they’d last searched it the previous night. If it was arson, then arsonists usually returned to the scene of the crime after some time. Granted, Daisy didn’t think they usually returned to the scene of the crime with some strange new bloke and cried all over it, but this one seemed a bit weird anyway.

Definitely the Eye Guy. Just, with less eyes. The strange new bloke was completely unfamiliar to her, though.

Daisy disconnected her earphones and pressed her phone up to her ear. She turned her head this way and that, pretending to hear something or someone behind her, to grab a few images of the pair walking together. They were walking briskly, and Daisy knew the photos were blurry, but they were sent along to Basira anyway.

“Who’s that guy,” Basira muttered on the other side of the phone, “A partner in crime?”

“Might be. They seem friendly enough.”

Reconnecting her earphones, Daisy could now hear Basira clicking at her laptop. Presumably trying to look this man up, somehow. Basira always had a real talent at that, which was something that Daisy always privately admired. Daisy wasn’t stupid, but her real talent was in legwork. Basira could pull apart a piece of technology and get it to do whatever she liked.

They made a good enough team. Daisy had to sheepishly admit that she didn’t like these one-on-one-off stakeout shifts, though. Nice to sleep with a body in the bed, instead of talking with Basira until she fell asleep with the phone still in hand.

“They’re stopping a man. Eye Guy just turned around and marched right up to him. Shit, he’s – he’s facing me, but I don’t think they’ve seen me.”

The clicking stopped at the other end of the line. “What are they saying?”

“Don’t know. Can’t hear. He’s freaking out – he stopped a guy in a suit, and the Eye Guy’s _really_ freaking him out, I think. The new bloke seems weirded out, too.”

“And you can’t get any closer?”

Daisy debated the odds of that working in her favor and decided against it. She didn’t know what the Eye Guy was doing to him, but it wasn’t anything good. “No. Sorry.” Regardless, soon enough, the Eye Guy and the strange new bloke turned around. There was a new shuffle to the Eye Guy’s movements, as if he was straggling home from the gym. Weird. But, they seemed in higher spirits than before. Daisy took a few more photos.

They stopped in front of a building. Flats. A thrill lighted up Daisy’s spine. Finding an address where someone lived was usually _fantastic._ It was just as good as finding a person, themselves. She took a photo and sent it along to Basira, and then another as the strange new bloke buzzed himself in.

Suddenly, they disappeared from view into the flat. Daisy leaned against the edge of an alleyway, waiting as she listened to the rhythmic tapping of Basira’s laptop. “Have you got anything?”

No response for a few more minutes, before Basira let out a satisfied chuckle. “Martin Blackwood lives at that address. I’ve pulled up a few photos of him – mind you, it was more difficult than it should have been. This man nearly lives off the grid, I swear. Had to find his photo from a banking website, he’s a night guard there. Could be he’s trying to hide his illicit activities.”

“Could be he’s a loser with no meaningful connections,” Daisy added, to which Basira let out a hesitant noise of agreement.

Martin was suddenly at one of the windows in the flat building. Just … _staring,_ out into the building next to him. Daisy swore and ducked further into the alley, peeking out just enough to watch Martin stare.

Suddenly, he looked nearly … spooked? He frowned quickly and turned away, further into his flat.

That certainly didn’t do anything to prove his innocence, Daisy figured, though she would have to know more about how he’d exactly come into contact with the Eye Guy. And, for that matter, what the Eye Guy’s whole deal was – and why he was there, why had he burned down the Institute, why was he outside of their _dreams?_

After some minutes, Martin Blackwood came out of the flat in a new uniform. Daisy recognized the name as a coffeeshop. He must’ve worked there, and soon, she pulled herself out of the alley and began the chase – slow and covert as it was – anew. She’d have to change along the way, at some point, on the off chance that he would recognize her from the street. Wouldn’t be hard. She was always prepared.

“I’m going to get some information out of him,” Daisy promised Basira over the phone, “Keep his address handy. We might just be paying it a visit.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief gun violence

Jon woke up to the sound of television playing quietly in Martin’s front room. He had curled entirely up in a fetal position, one arm defensively around his knees. Martin’s jacket surrounded him like a cocoon, warm and old. When he cracked his eyes open, he saw three things of note: (a) it was dark outside, (b) he was watching someone get brutally, theatrically murdered on the telly, and (c) Georgie and Melanie were sitting on the chair opposite him. Right, yes, Martin had mentioned that he would be getting babysitters, or security guards.

His hair had fallen out of its bun, frustratingly getting in his eyes as he leaned up. Jon reached up and scrubbed it out of his face. “Morning, er – evening,” he mumbled politely, voice scratchy and hoarse.

“You’ll be pleased to know that you didn’t grow any eyes in your sleep.” Georgie’s voice was still distrusting, but Melanie on her lap nevertheless quirked a smile.

“Oh, didn’t I? Damn, what a shame.” Jon pushed himself up. Although Georgie didn’t twitch from her spot, he noticed that Georgie’s eyes never left him. _Unafraid,_ Jon noted inwardly, _but not stupid._ Keeping his hands calm, Jon found his cane. “Going to brew a kettle. _No,_ it’s not going to be made with your blood.” A pause, and a snide remark: “Today.”

“Can hardly blame us for being a little tense.” Melanie slid off of Georgie’s lap and brushed her trousers off. When she walked to the kitchen with Jon, she seemed remarkably confident in her steps. Maybe they’d explored – ransacked – Martin’s flat already. Jon wouldn’t blame them. “Oculothorax shows up from my dream, and turns out he knows me _and_ my girlfriend.” Georgie followed a few moments after.

In truth, Jon supposed he _was_ rather pleased that they just didn’t end up stabbing him to be safe. Perhaps Melanie would have done that, ages ago. Georgie, ages further – there were definitely times in their relationship where Jon would’ve deserved a mild stabbing.

“Which you still won’t answer, I’m guessing? How you know everyone? I’ve never seen Martin Blackwood in my life. Honestly, it felt _weird_ when he asked us to babysit.”

Jon reached for the kettle on the stove and started to fill it with water. “ _Babysitter,”_ he scoffed, but it was his only reply.

“That’s what I thought.”

Although not as severely as Martin, Jon nevertheless felt at a loss to answer their question. _Hi, Georgie, we dated for three years and then you housed my sorry arse when I was under suspicion of murder. Melanie, we worked for a glorious while and then you tried to kill me and then I maimed your leg._ His brow furrowed as he set the kettle back on the stove, lost in thought and unhappy.

“What are your plans, now?” Melanie asked. Her elbow sought the counter inquisitively before she placed more weight on it, looking at Jon. “You know. Besides being a sideshow attraction? Come look at the Oculothorax.”

“Martin’s name would probably be more endearing for the sideshow circuit. _Eyeclops._ ” Rolling his eyes, Jon pushed his hair back away from his face. The idea of an after – perhaps not of the happily ever sort, but an _after_ – had never occurred to him. He never thought he would live. No, perhaps he thought he would _survive,_ but he never thought he would have to worry about things like … occupying his time. A job, even. _Christ._ He hadn’t been able to focus on much more than how good _Knowing_ made him feel. “I don’t – I don’t know. Everything’s been a bit surprising. I don’t know. What’s a stronger word than surprising?”

“You should know, Oxford alumnus, what’s a stronger word than surprising?” Melanie joked from the counter.

“Astonishing,” Jon and Georgie replied in unison, and then they shared a dagger-sharp glance.

“ _You_ went to Oxford?” Georgie asked, astonished, and Jon quickly averted his gaze. “What for?” A beat. “I went for history. ’05-’09. “

_What? You went from ’04 – ’09. You were there for a year before me._ “No, you didn’t, you –”

It was so hard to keep his mouth shut. It was so _hard_ to bite his tongue. Not only because Jon wasn’t a recalcitrant sort of person, but also because he _knew_ these people. Six months away from not seeing them had only been like a bizarre dream, and he wanted to converse with them. Freely. Like he’d never been able to. Not to mention that he’d only recently woken up from Knowing _everything,_ and hearing blatant misinformation spread struck him like a discordant melody.

Still. Wasn’t very good for keeping his cover. _Shit._

Jon sucked in his lips and sighed, pressing his hand against his face. “Sorry.” His voice was nothing more than a soft whisper. “Sorry, I’m just … tired. Ignore me.”

“No, hang on. _‘_ No I didn’t’ what?”

He supposed there was no escaping this. From the look Georgie was giving him, Jon really didn’t have a choice. “You went from 2004-2010. You initially went in for chemistry because your father was a physical chemist, but it turns out it’s less smoke-and-flashes and more equations-and-boredom, so you transferred to something you _actually_ had a passion for. Made you stay an extra year – but you loved it so much you didn’t mind, and _seriously,_ stop asking me things that you _don’t_ want to actually hear from my mouth.” Frustration flushed through Jon’s face as he brushed his hair away. “Oxford. ’05-’09. History and Literature. _Hi.”_

A pin could’ve dropped in the room between them. Maybe it wasn’t particularly _nice_ or _intelligent_ to be rude in this circumstance, but in his defense, Jon supposed, having to constantly reintroduce himself to his friends made him _sad._ And he lashed out when he was sad.

“So we knew each other. In Oxford. I … can’t say I remember you at all, but that’s not – it’s been a while, I guess?” Georgie stated after some minutes. “Doesn’t explain how you knew Mel, though.” The kettle started to whistle. Jon bustled over and, after a moment’s thought, retrieved three mugs.

There was the question, though. For whatever reason, Jon _did_ remember how they liked their tea – Georgie, because he had guilt-prepared tea when he’d been hunkering down in her flat, and Melanie, because he had fear-prepared tea when he’d wanted to be on her good side.

Was the smarter solution to make the same tea for all of them (and give them something they didn’t prefer) or to make their preferred kind (and reveal that he did, still, know something about them)?

In the end, Jon’s question was answered for him. All Martin had was green tea. _Great._ “Maybe I’m just a big fan of Ghost Hunters UK,” he muttered crossly. “Love … charlatans.”

Melanie scoffed under her breath. Jon smiled at her a little too widely as he dunked the teabags into the water. When Jon turned around with the tea mugs in hand, he was surprised to see Georgie just behind him – giving him a look bordering on venom.

While neither of them were violent in their general actions, they had argued frequently during their relationship. Casual, affectionate banter could escalate into a yelling match because Jon had no common sense and Georgie had no hesitation. They had been much better as simple friends, but it nevertheless hurt to see Georgie look at him like that. “Sorry,” he apologized reflexively. It wasn’t for the common about Melanie’s former profession, Jon knew – it was telling Jon, very politely, to _mind himself._ He was not the fixture in their lives that he had once been. He did not hold the same weight.

Finally, Melanie broke the silence. “There’s hair in my tea,” she murmured. “Georgie, is there hair in your tea?”

Both parties looked down into their cups. Indeed, several strands of long gray-and-black hairs were curled on the inside. Jon jumped somewhat and cursed. “ _Shit._ Sorry, I – I don’t normally keep it this long, I think it might be a vitamin deficiency, actually – Christ.” Distressed, he pushed his hair behind his ears.

“We could cut it for you.” Melanie ran her hand around the counter until her fingertips brushed the cool metal of the sink. She poured the tea into it. “Well – I’m volunteering Georgie. Can’t exactly promise I’d do a good job while I’m still getting used to things.” As the other two stared in silence at her, Melanie added, “What, love, do you think he’d be _more_ of a threat to you if you had a pair of scissors in your hands? If he’s going to be doing things like making tea, I’d rather not be choking on his hair.”

And, twenty minutes later, that was how the three of them were clustered in what amounted to a stranger’s small bathroom, searching for anything short of garden shears. There wasn’t anything like a bathtub in Martin’s small flat. Conscious that Martin would be less likely to kill them if they got hair all over his linoleum flooring rather than carpeting, they ended up dragging a chair in the middle of the kitchen.

“Stop – _stop_ it –” Jon choked out as Melanie sprayed him with water, directly into his face. “ _For God’s sake.”_

“Google says it’s better to cut hair if it’s a bit damp.”

“That’s not my hair, that’s my _face.”_

“Easy enough mistake.” Jon had a towel haphazardly tucked around his neck in what was quickly becoming the most domestic display he’d had in _years._ His last haircut, in the thick of things as it was, had resulted in him nearly getting his own ear cut off with his fidgeting. This was almost something friends _did_ from time-to-time, which meant that it was strange and unknown to him. “Georgie, have you cleaned the scissors?”

There had been rust on them. Jon wasn’t sure whether to curse Martin or Georgie out more for having those things get perilously close to his neck. Georgie hummed in agreement and turned around with them in hand. A comb was parted through his long hair. Wet and pin straight, it more than reached the seat of the chair.

Jon didn’t like that. Didn’t like the goosebumps that erupted over his arm when he brushed against his hair, as if it were a spiderweb weakly keeping him down.

“Bowlcut, yeah?” Georgie asked. “That’s what you wanted?”

Trepidation about getting his haircut besides, Jon did have to snort at that. “Lovely, perfect.”

Melanie reached for her mobile and searched for music on her phone. As she did so, her hips brushed against Georgie’s, and Georgie didn’t hesitate to give her a teasing, affectionate poke. For his part, Jon settled back against the chair and let his head tilt back somewhat. An exhale left him, slow and steady.

An emotion was bubbling up in him. It wasn’t happiness, per se. Before all of this, Jon had felt the pleasure of being the Watcher – sadistic, hedonistic, intense, _powerful, godlike_ – so good it had almost ripped him to pieces inside. There had been a quieter happiness that had overtaken him while he was here: seeing Martin and others alive and okay. And there had been moments of rest, moments where Jon gave into his body’s constant demands for sleep. But those had seemed raw and desperate. 

Now, Jon relaxed – not because he had to, but because he _wanted_ to. Because he wanted to hear Georgie and Melanie’s light-hearted banter between one another, because he wanted not to argue for a little while, because he could feel an actual, physical weight being lifted off his shoulders as the scissors sheared through.

Curling his arms around his stomach, Jon just smiled.

-

“You know, the thing about work is that if you just stop thinking about it _like_ work, and just sort of like a place to show up to, it’s _really_ not that bad,” Martin chatted to his coworker. He had a friendly smile on his face as he filled the next drink order, calling out a hesitant ‘Marguerite?’ before passing it off to the correct customer.

“What if showing up isn’t something I want to do? If we’re just hanging out here, man, you’re a pretty shit host. Making me fill coffee orders.”

“ _Shshsh--! Jake!”_ The last thing Martin needed was his boss coming in to hear Jake swearing near customers. This happened to be one of the jobs that Martin genuinely liked. The night guard thing was a bit spooky and there was a little _too_ much interaction with being a waiter.

Plus, it was easier to let his mind wander off and think about what the hell was going on in his flat right then. He made a habit of not taking his phone out when customers were present, and unfortunately, it had been a _very_ busy shift. Martin had only been able to excuse himself just the once, and for just long enough to see that they had, apparently, decided to cut Jon’s hair. They’d sent a picture.

It now framed his face pretty well, stopping just at his chin. Much easier to manage. Martin had debated on what emoji to respond with, before he’d gotten quickly called back out – in a fluster of panic, he had sent a heart-eyes emoji and _that_ was weighing on his mind more heavily than he wanted to.

Yes, _perhaps_ he had thought the mental equivalent of a heart-eyes emoji when he’d first seen the picture – Jon shyly grimacing, the entire photo blurred as if he were trying to cringe away from the camera – but he hadn’t wanted to _send_ it. He wanted to send something cooler. A thumbs-up. A flexing bicep. _Anything._

Usually, Martin didn’t want to be in his flat. It was a bit lonely and hard to knock around in. Yes, Martin appreciated occasionally curling up by his window and just relaxing with nothing to do, to let the stress out – but more than a few hours of that, and Martin started to feel poorly about himself again. Going out again seemed best for him, mentally. Otherwise, it was just bedroom to hallway to living room to kitchen, and repeat.

Things had changed a bit within the past few days. Now, Martin was looking _forward_ to going home, perhaps even gently ribbing his strange new guest about the state of his hair. Trying to wring more information out of him, of course, certainly, but – Martin liked him. Liked his company. Jon was deeply haunted, but Jon was also … someone to take care of?

Perhaps he ought to call? Just to make sure things were going okay. Of course, given the photo, Martin was certain things _were,_ but it’d been about six hours since he left and it would be good to check in. It was well enough night by now. Martin had two more hours and then the night shift, and then he was going to pass out.

“Hey, I’m going to take a, um, smoke break,” Martin remarked, stepping away from the register. Jake raised an eyebrow at him curiously.

“You smoke?” Jake’s voice held the tone of a man in considerable disbelief.

Martin _had_ smoked, once. It had been back when he still bound, and through a mixture of not-knowing and desperation, hadn’t been _particularly_ healthy about it. For months, he’d walked around with consistent low-level rib and chest pain. The coughing from the cigarette he’d been handed had been so unbearable he started to cry, and as it happened, he hadn’t _rather_ impressed the guy that he’d been trying so hard to seem cool with.

He hesitated for a moment, making a brief noise in the back of his throat. “I, ah – I … vape.”

Jake threw up the shaka sign. “Cool. Don’t leave me out here too long, okay?”

Ducking gratefully away from the front counter of the coffeeshop, Martin went into the back room and took a breath to himself. He could still hear the chatter and commotion in the main shop behind him. People, sitting and writing screenplays and chatting to loved ones and leading their own perfectly lives on their own.

For most of his life, Martin had felt somewhat … _othered._ When he had been a child, the sensation had been easy enough to attribute. The other schoolchildren had lovely families (at least, they spoke about them as if they were), not a mother who yelled and snapped and occasionally slapped him ( _it’s not abuse, it’s just, it was how she grew up)._ So he was just too different.

Then he realized he always felt tight and itchy whenever he thought about his own body because, _surprise,_ he was a boy -- and he supposed he felt othered, then, because everyone else he saw seemed so comfortable in their own skin, while he had to take extra steps to enjoy being in his.

Then, recently, he supposed he felt othered because … everyone else seemed to have a nice neat little life with coherent flow and progression, whereas Martin just _existed_ day-to-day. Nobody to check up on him. Nothing he was building up towards. Just surviving.

Martin shook his head. _Christ,_ he needed to see a therapist.

He stepped out into the back alley and removed his mobile from his pocket. Martin pulled up his messaging thread with the others and looked down at the heart-eyes emoji. Well, shit. _Tell him that it suits him!_ There. A nice, normal, _not_ pathetic thing to say. Martin waited for a few seconds with no response, before he decided it was about time to call. He hated calling people. Texting? Fine.

“Hi,” Someone said behind him, and Martin dropped his phone.

Instinctively, Martin ducked down to retrieve it. He saw a woman step out into the main corridor of the alley and look down at him. Martin could’ve sworn there was something _too_ shiny about her eyes, a sort of hunger – and Martin felt like a cornered mouse in that instant.

“Martin Blackwood?”

That made this the second stranger that knew his name. As Martin stared up at the towering, muscular woman, though, he couldn’t help but feel that she was _much_ more dangerous. Her short blond hair was pulled back with some sort of sparkly clip – a flower, Martin thought. It didn’t make the rest of her appearance – particularly the deep scar lines on her cheek – seem any less intimidating.

_Holy shit, am I getting mugged?_ Martin thought to himself, unable to truly make a plan in that minute. _Muggers don’t usually call their muggees by name, I thought._ Nevertheless, he leaned up and took a step back until he felt solid brick behind him. “How – “ No, historically, asking how people knew his name meant nothing. “What do you want?”

“The answers to a few questions.” She took a step forward and Martin felt his knees start to buckle again. “I’m not going to hurt you. My name is Daisy.”

A soft name for a very hard woman. Martin looked down at the mobile in his hand. He did have Jake’s number, just inside – and if he yelled loud enough, _someone_ would hear him. But he didn’t like the shiny look in the woman’s eyes, and Martin just nodded.

The woman produced a photo from her leather jacket and showed it to him. And there, Martin caught a glance of Jon. But … different.

This man was clearly University-aged, but the photo produced was clearly taken with an early 2000s camera. Martin wasn’t a camera expert, but he did play around with polaroids on occasion. His hair was neatly trimmed, he was wearing a sweater vest, and he was casting a fierce glare to the camera between two library stacks. Someone did _not_ want his photo taken.

The caption underneath the photo read ‘Jonathan Sims, a student worker, diligently shelves at the University library.’ A clipping from some University newspaper, maybe.

“Do you know this man?” Daisy allowed Martin to take the photo as he stared. There was no visible scarring on the man’s face, and if it weren’t for the caption, Martin wouldn’t be _sure_ that he knew him.

Martin considered lying. He did. And he knew that he was damn good at lying, too. He had no idea whether this woman wanted to hurt Jon or not, but she clearly didn’t know where he was. And she might know some answers that Martin desperately wanted, himself. Pursing his lips, Martin nodded.

“Do you know his connection to a place called the Magnus Institute?” Daisy took the photo back and placed it in her pocket. “What he did there? His position?”

Remaining cautious, Martin nodded. He had been able to make some assumptions, even if Jon had cut himself off. “An archivist, there. He worked there for years.”

“Did he like it much?”

“Ha!” The laugh was nervous, and Martin wildly shook his head. “No, no, I don’t think he did at all. He – bad boss, I think. You know how it is.” _Don’t make small talk,_ Martin begged himself, _stop talking when you’re nervous._

Daisy didn’t seem to be writing all of this down, but then he saw something black clipped to the collar of her shirt. A microphone. Someone else was listening to all of this. _Great._ “Do you think he’s human?” There was no indication that her question was in any way odd, and after speaking with Jon, Martin had to admit that it was not an unusual question.

“I think he – I don’t think he used to be,” Martin advised honestly, “But I think he _is_ now.”

“And has he mentioned knowing people, that he shouldn’t rightly know? Spoken names like he’s known people?”

Martin was no longer fazed. “Yes. Me, and – I know of two others, at least. He knows them, details about them, but they have no idea who he is.”

“Has he been secretive in any way? Maybe even violent?” Even if the first question was obvious enough, Martin had to think about the second one. “Any interest in the supernatural?”

“Yes. Yes, he’s been secretive. He hasn’t _been_ violent, but he’s got sort of a … he’s got a fiery temper. And he’s a bit rude. I – “ The question about the supernatural made Martin pause. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would be, really, but he thinks he used to be a monster. I don’t – I mean, honestly enough, that seems like the most plausible theory. At least, the only one I can think of.”

Daisy’s hand went up to pinch the corner of her collar. “Have you got all that, Basira?”

There was a crackle in the microphone, but so quiet that Martin couldn’t hear it. Daisy nevertheless nodded, satisfied. “Wait,” Martin shot out. “What are you doing, investigating him? What do you think he’s done?”

Daisy had turned around to return back to the motorcycle … blocking the entrance of the alley. Martin’s only escape was inside the coffeeshop. He tried not to think about how badly it could have gone if he hadn’t answered the questions. She turned around and frowned, before giving a slow nod. “We’re two independent investigators.” Daisy tapped the microphone on the edge of the shirt. “We’re looking into who burned down the Magnus Institute.”

“It wasn’t him,” Martin blurted out. “He didn’t even remember it burned down until I brought him back to show him.”

That seemed to surprise her, albeit in the most minute of ways. Daisy rose an eyebrow, considered it, and then nodded. “How close are you to him, by the by?”

“I’m not. I’m just trying to figure things out, the same as you two. He’s – “ Martin broke himself off to consider his statement – in a way that didn’t make him seem like he was losing his mind. “I keep getting the feeling that he is, or used to be, part of something a lot … bigger. That he _used_ to do a lot of, ehm, bad things. But right now, Daisy, I promise you, he’s not in any state to be … dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” Daisy murmured under her breath. “Right.’

Without another word, Daisy turned around and got back on her motorbike. Martin watched in curious silence.

_She never asked me where I live._ Martin wondered if that was an indication that she was going to drop the line of investigation – somehow, Martin doubted it – or something much worse. He felt anxiety shoot through his veins as he watched Daisy speed off into the street. _Jon’s safe as long as she doesn’t know where I live._

Reaching for his mobile, Martin typed a text.

_Hi, Mel and Georgie! Do me a favor and make sure the front door is locked, wouldn’t you? It’s not a big deal at all, I just want to make sure and this text isn’t going to do anything but freak you both out. Shit._

The text was deleted. Martin took a deep breath and told himself that it would be nothing. It would be way too far for two independent investigators to break into his flat. Besides, they didn’t even know where he lived. And it would be fine. He closed his eyes, brought himself together, and went back inside.

_-_

“You’ve brought dinner,” Jon commented with a raised eyebrow as Martin stepped inside. “And – you’re very early?”

It was only half past nine when Martin came home. His shift wasn’t meant to end until half three in the morning. Apparently, his boss had made the overarching determination that a night guard was only necessary _half_ of the week, which not only didn’t make sense, but also meant that Martin’s hours had been slashed in half.

Which meant that he would either have to quit this job entirely and find another, or he would have to find another job willing to work with three other job schedules. Martin was leaning towards the first, which was a shame. Shit hours aside, sitting at a desk and watching cameras for eight hours hadn’t been terrible.

He’d also taken to napping at his desk on occasion. On days when he worked half-shifts at his two other jobs, it was almost a necessity. There’d been one awful day when all three jobs had insisted on his presence for eight hour shifts, and Martin had spent all night at the desk sleeping.

It wasn’t healthy, and Martin knew it wasn’t, but it was difficult to find another solution.

Now, he didn’t want to think about having to deal with it. He wanted to have dinner. “Yeah, Melanie mentioned that you didn’t eat much for dinner, and I thought – well, I haven’t eaten myself, so I thought you might be peckish now?”

“Is everything okay?” Jon ignored the question and allowed Martin in. Melanie and Georgie had been gone for several hours, on the insistence that Jon had been dead-asleep on the sofa. Martin wasn’t sure if he’d woken him or Jon hadn’t been sleeping as much as they thought. Either way, Martin wasn’t too concerned. “With your job, I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine. Do you like Italian?”

Jon made a noise frighteningly similar to a groan. “ _Yes,_ please.” He went to go sit cross-legged on a chair with the bag of food in hand, starting to get the various boxes and bins out. “You’ve – you’ve gotten my favorite.”

“Oh. Have I?” Martin curled up on the couch adjacent to Jon’s chair, reaching for his own box and cracking it open. He had just sort of stared at the menu for a second, wildly wondering what the hell a former eye monster would enjoy eating, before one item had just seemed … right? Obvious, Martin supposed. “Lucky guess. Now go on, eat.”

Jon began to eat fairly viciously. They didn’t talk for some minutes as they both tucked into their meals; Martin feeling a little like he was going to start dozing on the couch. It was mildly entertaining to watch Jon eat like he hadn’t eaten in some time. Martin supposed that having a mouth was a relatively new concept, again.

He had considered telling Jon about his interrogation with Daisy. But he didn’t think it would do any more than unnecessarily worry the man, and although Martin felt selfish about it, he didn’t feel like he had the energy to keep him calm. Keeping conscious while tearing into dinner was about the most he could manage.

And it was nice. Eating dinner with someone was nice, even if it was in silence. Somehow, it was different than eating alone in silence. Stirring again, Martin offered Jon a warm smile. “Your haircut looks nice,” Martin complimented, “By the way. Melanie and Georgie sent me a photo earlier.”

“They took a ridiculous amount of photos.” Jon’s voice was irritated. “It’s like they’ve cleaned up the stray and are planning to put him on the adoption website.”

“ ‘Not good with children or other cats’.”

The irritation in his voice left Jon completely, replaced by a faint, almost shy smile. “Ha. Yes. Yeah. Maybe.” He took a deep, exhaustive breath. “I won’t be in your hair too much longer, Martin, I promise. You’ve been ridiculously kind to me so far, obviously, but I have been thinking about what to do next.”

“Yeah? And what’ve you came up with?”

Jon made the choked noise of a man who hadn’t been expecting the question and who couldn’t, exactly, formulate a believable lie in time. “Ehm, not really,” he confessed, “But I’ll find something. Master’s in History, I’ll find somewhere. My last workplace _did_ burn down, but thoroughly not my fault, so.”

Strange to think of Jon finding a normal-person job right after all this. Jon seemed incredulous enough at the idea himself. He pulled his knees a little closer to his chest, as if feeling overwhelmed. His arms weren’t even in the sleeves of his jacket, instead folded around his legs.

“Well, don’t feel like you’ve got to leave anytime soon,” Martin promised warmly. Even if he wasn’t suitably convinced by the warm food, the dimly lit living room, and the enjoyable company, he would’ve offered anyway. Not because he was particularly overly _nice,_ Martin figured, but he had a tendency to make other people’s feelings his own problem. “Seriously. Stay around for a bit until you get it figured out. You’re not a bad house guest.”

“I haven’t exactly _done_ anything, though.”

“You’ve been company. And I don’t exactly, um,” Martin trailed off, sheepish. “Have a lot of that.”

Jon dipped his head and said nothing. Martin figured the offer was accepted. He saw that Jon was swallowing rather rapidly after not taking any bites of food. Er. Wasn’t that a sign of choking? Jon was staring off into space, a little dazed.

“Sorry, I’m just making sure you’re not – you’re not choking, are you?”

“No, no.” Thickly, Jon reached for water and took a deep drink from it. _Oh,_ hell, he’d been close to tears. Martin frowned. “I’m fine. Just grateful. Thank you.” Jon put his half-finished box in front of him and stood, glancing towards the kitchen. “I’ll just get the trash together, then, why don’t I –”

Martin uncurled his legs and stood up in front of Jon. He reached for him by his wrist and his fingers curled around the warm – _warm,_ now, human warm and certainly not cold – skin there. Lightly, Martin tugged his arm back towards the sofa, but Jon stood still. “Jon,” he advised, “Sit down and finish eating? I’m not in any rush.”

Jon didn’t respond. Jon just looked up at him, mouth slightly opened.

Martin suddenly became hyper-aware that they were standing in a very dimly lit living room. It was cozy, especially as they could hear the muffled noises of traffic and passersby outside. His hallway and the kitchen stretched on into darkness, and it was very easy to feel like they were the only two people that mattered in this little room.

Not for the first time, Martin wondered how Jon knew him. He wondered how he had once known Jon. Had they been friends? Had Martin thought him as attractive as he did at the current moment, and did Martin have the same _this is a bad idea, don’t do it_ thoughts running through his head?

His fingers were still wrapped around Jon’s wrist.

Jon raised his free hand until it was pressing against Martin’s cheek. He was smiling, warmly, a sort of look that Martin hadn’t recognized for a long time that made him feel like he was bubbling over inside. There was sheer affection in Jon’s eyes, a shared secret that was their presence together. “I missed you so much,” Jon admitted in a voice that was rather like a croak. He was pushing himself onto the tips of his toes, trying to make up for the height difference, and Martin unconsciously lowered his head to meet him halfway. “I kept thinking of us – “

A scraping. At the front door. Martin’s head shot towards it first, closely followed by Jon. Martin dropped Jon’s hand and took one step towards it, ready to investigate. It sounded like someone was taking a metal pick to his door, closely accompanied by several clicking sounds. _A burglar?_ Martin thought to himself. “Martin,” he heard Jon say, “Get back from the door.”

The door _slammed_ open, the doorknob making a sizable dent in the white wall. It hung open, stuck there. In his doorway stood Daisy and someone Martin didn’t know but figured, from context clues, was Basira. Daisy lowered her foot to the ground from where she had kicked in the door.

“I _thought_ you said that he worked,” Daisy hissed over her shoulder. Basira, getting over her momentary surprise at seeing _two_ men in the apartment, glowered. “He had a night shift until three.”

“That’s what I was told.” Daisy took a step into the flat, and Martin quickly sidestepped to block her line of sight from Jon. “There he is. That’s him.”

As Basira followed Daisy’s suit, Martin realized with a start that she had a gun underneath her jacket. Who the hell brought a _gun?_ “Jon, go – go in the bedroom,” Martin choked out with more confidence than he really felt, and part of him hoped that Jon _wouldn’t,_ because that would mean leaving Martin with two pissed-off women, one of which had a gun. He nevertheless tried to wave Jon off. “The fire escape.”

“Not a chance. Daisy –”

“On it.” Daisy pushed her way forward to Jon, only to be stopped by Martin grabbing her arm. Daisy didn’t stop her momentum, instead wheeling around to slam her fist into the side of Martin’s temple. Martin let out a yelp of pain and released her, stumbling backwards. “Sorry, mate.’

“We just want to ask him a few questions,” Basira chided. Martin watched as Daisy held Jon’s arms behind him. He was struggling, still, but not nearly as much as he should’ve. He seemed in a state of shock, only. “That’s _all._ There doesn’t have to be a fight.”

_“If there doesn’t have to be a fight, why’d you bring a gun!?”_ His hand was pressed against the bruise on the face as he walked forward again. “Jesus Christ, how did you find out where I _live –”_

“Martin, leave it,” Jon muttered weakly, “I’ll answer what they want to know. Don’t get yourself hurt.”

“What the _hell_ is going on!?” A fourth voice entered the fray in the form of Ms. Melanie King, standing in the open door. Georgie stood just to her side, holding a cricket bat tightly in her hands.

Georgie entered the flat first to see Daisy still holding Jon’s arms behind him. “ _Let him go,”_ she ordered, raising the bat in her arms to bring it down directly on Daisy’s head. Martin grasped Jon’s upper arm in an attempt to get him away – “Jon, let’s go, come on,” he muttered desperately, but Jon seemed to be in a state of shock.

“Basira, Daisy, how –” Jon mumbled, and _of course_ he knew them, of course he did, because Jon knew every single person on the face of the Earth, apparently.

Martin heard an audible click and jerked his head towards the front door. Basira had flicked the safety off her gun and was pointing it directly at Georgie. _That_ got Jon’s attention, and he started to strain hard against Daisy’s grip. “ _Basira,_ no!” he shouted, but Georgie didn’t seem keen to back down. The bat was still raised. Georgie’s gaze was still hard.

There was a scuffle at the front of the flat as Martin watched Melanie unsheathe her utility knife. It was pressed somewhere against Basira’s side, with an additional hiss of, “Shoot my girlfriend and this is going through your damn kidney.”

And there, Martin hoped that they would be at a standoff, because at least a standoff would give them time to think. Martin had no such luck. Daisy caught sight of the knife pressed against Basira’s side and let out a _growl_ that _couldn’t_ have been human. She released Jon and leapt forward towards Melanie and Basira.

In the same motion, Georgie lowered the bat down to prevent Daisy from reaching Melanie. It didn’t make contact, but the entire room was temporarily deafened as Basira fired her gun – simultaneous with a shout of pain.

The shot went wide, going to parts unknown. Nevertheless, Martin’s hands went to his ears in pain. _Christ, don’t phone for the police,_ Martin mentally begged his neighbors. Everyone seemed temporarily stunned: Melanie stumbled back from Basira, her knife wet with blood, Basira lowered the gun and slouched in pain, Daisy started advancing on Melanie, and Georgie raised her bat again to attack Daisy – only to be stopped by Jon, jerking her arm back. “ _Please,”_ Jon begged, seemingly frantic, “You all _know_ each other, _please_ – “

Melanie had stumbled forward to grasp Jon by his jumper. Georgie inadvertently clipped Jon against the head as she turned around to grasp Jon’s arm, in an attempt to pull him off. Still intent to reach her prey, Daisy put a hand flat on Jon’s chest to push him back from Melanie. Frustrated with it all, Basira had a hold on the back of Jon’s jumper in an attempt to yank him back from the cluster.

And the Eyeclops, the Oculothorax, the Eye Guy, the _Jon_ was quiet, overwhelmed by the ghosts of his past trying to get a piece of him. His head whipped around from person to person as he occasionally mumbled their names in turn.

Martin stepped forward. It was a cluster of hands, all tugging, all shouting, and there was _blood_ – smeared across Jon’s jumper, now, and everyone’s hands seemed smeared with it to some extent or another. Most frighteningly, Basira’s gun was in the midst, still clutched in her free hand. Martin’s chest was tight. _People could die!_ His mind shouted at him. _Do something!_

“ _Stop!”_ Martin yelled. His tone was not his own – it was as if he was speaking through a thin cloth, the warbly distortion not severe enough to be noticed by the others. “ _Get away from him,”_ he commanded, mouth dry.

As if yanked by strings, all four women jumped back. It left Jon in the center, his jumper stained with blood. He was scrubbing his hands together, fidgeting over and over, clearly anxious. His thin frame was trembling. Jon didn’t look _scared,_ no, but he seemed powerless in a way that he rather didn’t like.

Melanie, Georgie, Basira, and Daisy looked at one another, shocked, before looking at Martin. With the gun still in Basira’s hand, Martin wasn’t going to take time to wonder at what he had just done.

“Jon, are you okay?” Martin asked.

Jon looked at him behind his glasses. He looked down over himself, at the blood smeared on his jumper, and gave a small, slow nod.

“Okay.” The others, for what it was worth, seemed not tragically hurt. Basira had raised her shirt to see a light cut on her side, still bleeding somewhat. Georgie had a few small cuts – _fingernails? Did Daisy swipe her? She has such sharp fingernails –_ on her arm. The others didn’t seem to be in much pain. Martin’s face was starting to throb.

Five people, now, five people who Jon knew and who knew Jon. Five people who desperately wanted answers – so far, Martin considered, that it had nearly ended in something very tragic. This couldn’t go on. He didn’t think that he could just tell them to … stop, and to not come back. After all, what did he have to protect himself? He wasn’t sure why they had stopped attacking Jon in the first place.

He stepped forward, his gaze never leaving Jon’s own. “This is getting ridiculous, Jon, and I’m sorry if it’s painful, but clearly –” Martin waved his hand towards the others. “We all _know_ you somehow. You’ve been in all of our dreams. And I understand you not wanting to tell us, but,” his eyes fell down towards the gun, “Clearly, you being secretive isn’t working. Now, before people get hurt worse – “ And then, the wispy tone came over him again: “ _Sit down and tell us everything that you know.”_

At first, Jon did nothing but raise an eyebrow. Something perplexed crossed over his face, but then, mechanically, he went over to his chair and sat down.

He leaned forward, pressing his elbows against his knees and his head into his hands. That action only lasted for a few seconds while Jon gathered his thoughts together. Eventually, he raised his hand and looked at everyone in turn, before his gaze finally settled on Martin.

“Okay,” he echoed hollowly. The remnants of their meal lay around them, and the room was still dim, and his new haircut still suited him – but Martin’s warm feelings for the man vanished in that moment, instead fueled by the desire to _know_ how this man had came into his life and mucked it so much in such a short period of time. “Okay. It starts with –” Jon’s gaze glanced over the others again, before he sighed and continued. “It starts with The Magnus Institute.”

And they listened. They listened as Jon told them the story of the Magnus Institute, told them about the horrific beings that they saw, about the people that they had lost, about the gigantic, intertangled chain that they had found themselves unwilling, traumatized participants of.

He also told them about how that chain had been burned to the ground – by him, at the cost of the world’s perception of his own identity. That he had been doomed to wander the Archives forever as some omniscient creature covered in eyes, a being with no ties to his former self, until his connection to the Eye had been severed entirely.

And then, Jon concluded, he had run into Martin.

Everyone fell into silence, trying to determine what they had just heard. Jon’s head swiveled to all of them in turn, eyes pleading, before he lowered them to the ground with everyone else. After some time, Daisy’s hand found her girlfriend’s hip to see the extent of the cut there.

Martin couldn’t believe the others were even _considering_ what was clearly the insane ramblings of a delusional man.

_None_ of that could be true. It all tied up so nicely, but they had no way to verify it – and Martin refused to be that gullible. Jon knew them in some way, maybe he was secretly an obsessive stalker, but it didn’t _matter._ Daisy and Basira had somehow found out where he lived; Jon could certainly find their names and a few preliminary details.

Martin was tired. People often treated him like he was stupid, like he would just follow them around to the ends of the earth based on a promise of veracity, but he _refused_ to do that anymore. The self-hating thoughts in his mind receded, replaced with a newer, smaller, wispier voice: Martin was _hard-working,_ Martin was _intelligent,_ Martin was _dependable._ Martin deserved better than blind faith.

“ _Get out,”_ Martin commanded everyone, until his eyes eventually settled on Jon. “ _Get out of my flat. All of you.”_

There was no argument. How could there be, with a voice that persuasive? Basira and Daisy left first, with Daisy’s concern clearly placed more on her girlfriend. Melanie and Georgie left next, the latter without retrieving her cricket back. Jon seemed to hold out the longest, his legs trembling on the chair with the effort. “Martin,” he asked as if every word was some massive effort, “Are you okay?”

_Shut up,_ Martin thought, and so Jon did. “Get out of my flat.”

And Jon did. Without his cane, Jon stood from the chair. He seemed to wobble on his own two feet for a moment though, and not without a great deal of pain, Jon went through Martin’s open front door. No sympathy written on his face, Martin stood and shut it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Web-related body horror, brief transphobia mention, brief mind control

Sleep had come easily for Martin. After everyone had left, he had grown so exhausted that his vision started to blur. He had debated just passing out on the sofa, but in the end, managed to use his last reserve of energy to go and collapse in his bed. He didn’t spare any more thoughts towards Jon – nor towards the bullet hole that he’d have to find in the morning. The blooming pain on the side of his head was harder to ignore, and Martin had spared a displeased glance at himself in the mirror. Thankfully, there were no more knocks on his door … or if there were, then Martin slept right enough through them.

He had hoped that his extreme exhaustion would mean that he would have no more dreams that night. Unfortunately, his subconscious was not as kind. When Martin woke, he was in the same pitch-black room as before with the eight light points shining above him. He couldn’t help but make the connection, now, with the spiderwoman from before: _eyes._

He could not move. And he was _scared,_ and Christ, he was so _tired_ of being scared.

The music was playing again, dim and plucked, in the back of his mind. Martin leaned into the music as a comfort. It was comfortable, familiar, and not in the least bit haunting. Martin greeted it like a friend as each note hit a tune within his mind. _Don’t be scared,_ it seemed to soothe to Martin, _don’t be scared. I’m here for you. I’m with you. I’m listening._

“I agree,” the voice from the edge of the circle agreed with him. Martin could only see the outer edge of her shoes, black and rounded. “Being scared is just so – _much,_ isn’t it? It’s akin to feeling helpless.” A breathy laugh erupted from her chest. “It _is_ feeling helpless.”

“Can we not?” Martin asked wearily, shutting his eyes again. “I just want to pass out and wake up. No more of this – whatever this is.”

“I thought you might want to talk about what happened. It felt _good,_ didn’t it?”

The absurdity of the statement made Martin snap his eyes open. “ _Good!?_ Sorry, what part of someone coming into my flat and waving a _gun_ around was good?” He spat out.

The strange woman stepped out into the light again. Martin flinched at the sight of her. Webs. Covered in _webs._ Jon had espoused some especially nutty bullshit at him, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about … _Webs._ Fear Entities, yes, but this couldn’t possibly – no. This was some especially weird burp of his subconscious. Jon was out of his life, now. A crazy man that he’d been far too kind to, because Martin was always _far too kind_ and _far too kind_ was a synonym for _spineless._ “Not the gun, Martin,” she chided him, “People _listening_ to you.”

“People listen to me all the time.”

“ _Do_ they? Has anyone _ever_ listened to you?” Turning around, the spiderwoman seemed to list a few things off on her unnaturally tall, pointed fingers. “You spend your jobs getting ordered around by people. No friends or partners to speak of – that last man you went on a date with just used you as his personal echo chamber. You drop out of school and nobody bats an eyelash. You tell your own mother your name and she gets _angry_ at you, Martin.” She turned to face him again. “You hop to it when people ask you for things and remain quiet as a churchmouse otherwise. Nobody seems to want your company if they don’t get anything out of it.”

“Shut up.” Martin’s voice was barely more than a tremble. “Shut up. What is this for?” Strangely enough, this led more credence to the subconscious theory – this was every insecure thought that had jostled around Martin’s mind since he still lived at home. “Making me upset?”

He wasn’t crying, yet, but he knew he was nearly there. It was the stress of the day, mostly, beating down on him. He hated crying. Martin instead screwed up his face and stared without fear at the woman with a partially missing skull. Spiders crawled over her face and hair without any hesitation. They seemed to burrow into her as easily as scorpions in the desert. It was getting harder to breathe, air catching in his throat. Hard not to imagine it getting caught in a web, somewhere lodged in the trachea.

“No, no. You see – I’m asking you if you _want_ that. People walking _all_ over you.”

“Of course I don’t _want_ that. Nobody would.”

“Then you don’t have to.” She took a step forward and gave Martin a hollow smile. Her teeth were quite white, Martin noticed, but there was occasional movement within her mouth that he _really_ didn’t want to think about. “You saw what you did, earlier. People listened to you. I could help you do that again. All I need is for you to agree.”

That was … well, that was rather tempting, wasn’t it? And Martin hadn’t noticed any change at all, when he spoke to them. When he had ordered them to please shut up. There was a surge of power beneath it, and they had looked at him a bit like he was crazy, and Jon had looked a touch – maybe a touch frightened, at some point, but as far as Martin figured … _all_ of those people were out of his life, now. They were all connected to him through Jon, and Jon was definitely out of his life, so that was that.

There was nothing to lose. Still, best to make sure. “What’s the catch?” Martin asked, tilting his head to the side. “People listen to me, whatever _that_ means, and what do you take from me?”

The woman considered this. She tilted her head back and forth – one side seemed heavier than the other, and Martin didn’t let himself wonder about the implications of that. Martin was not even convinced that this was real, much less that she was granting him some sort of strange _power._ Still, the past few days had been weird enough that he was willing to, at least, think about her request. If people like Jon could exist, then maybe people like this woman could exist.

It had felt so very good when people had listened to him. If they’d just done that to begin with, nobody would’ve gotten hurt. There wouldn’t be any pain at all. It was _logical_ for people to listen to him.

“If you catch anyone in your web,” she finally advised, “Let me have a bite, won’t you?”

Whatever _that_ meant. Martin could imagine, and shuddered. No, he told himself. He may have been a shit human being, but he didn’t go out wanting to _hurt_ people. There would be no ‘catching anyone in his web’. Maybe this woman hurt people – but he certainly wouldn’t.

Martin nevertheless considered the proposition, wondering if he was making a very stupid mistake. But, at the whole of his life, found that he rarely regretted _doing_ things – he almost constantly regretted _not_ doing them.

“Okay,” Martin agreed. He stuck out his hand for the bizarre woman to approach him. As she did so, Martin considered that she was a little less frightening as she got closer. Perhaps she was a perfectly nice woman, albeit with a strange skull injury. Maybe Martin was the asshole for thinking so poorly of her. “What’s your name, by the way? You never said.”

She walked over, just shy of seven feet tall. Martin noticed that her fingers were unnaturally long and thin, with sharp, bulging knuckles set in the center of each digit. When she clasped Martin’s hand, she gave him another smile and a firm pump of the hand as casual as she pleased. Martin witnessed a spider crawl from her hand to his. “Annabelle,” she responded in her usual whisper. She pulled her hand away and Martin noticed that the spider was no longer there. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

-

Martin woke up with a start. It was 7:23 AM, which meant that he had 37 minutes to get to work. Grunting, he rolled over to his side, at the schedule on his nightstand, to see where he worked today: the café and then the coffeeshop. Sixteen hours. He sighed and rolled onto his back, regarding the ceiling.

Why did he have to _work_ to pay _rent._ Why did things _cost_ money.

The dream didn’t bother him unnecessarily. It’d been scary, sure, but plenty of dreams were scary and nightmares weren’t unusual and he was a fully grown man. This was reality, and Martin had to get to work. He got up and stood in the shower, scratching at his chest sleepily.

“You’re going to get drowned, little guy,” Martin sighed as he spotted the spider around the drain. He gently picked it up and let it crawl out onto the counter before turning the scalding water on.

Already, the flat felt _emptier._ Martin refused to let himself feel guilty about that very noticeable absence. He’d done his good deed by allowing Jon to get himself cleaned up, but there was no way that Martin had done all that Jon had said. It was ridiculous. And from the faces of the others, they felt the same way. No, this was for the _best,_ and Martin had done the best thing for _himself._ For _once._

Stepping out of the shower, Martin started the blow-dryer in his hair and wrinkled his nose at how long it was getting. The curls were extending nearly to the center of his rounded cheek. Perhaps he’d go a little shorter than normal, next trip to the stylist’s? The spider that he removed from the shower was sitting primly on the counter as if inspecting him, and it made Martin smile. “Nice to have an audience,” he tittered at his own joke. “Like what you see?”

Martin leaned across the counter and delicately probed at the purple bruise on the side of his head. _Shit._ That would be hard to disguise; Martin desperately pulled at one curl in an attempt to hide it. Nothing. He regarded himself in the mirror with a wince before he caught sight of the clock. It made him jump.

Martin had seven minutes to get into work by the time that he had finished pulling himself together. He would make it, but only just. As he came into his kitchen, he realized where the bullet had gotten to – there was now a little hole, just in the corner of his dining room. Thank God he didn’t share that wall with anybody, or else he would’ve gotten a nasty surprise. It was somewhat disappointing that nobody had actually bothered with the police, though. _Glad to know nobody cares if someone got shot,_ Martin thought with a sigh.

Stepping out into the street, Martin looked up and down both ways before scurrying off to work. He was three minutes late and ducked in sheepishly. “Sorry, sorry,” Martin instinctively apologized as he saw his boss. He kept his head bowed somewhat. “ _Forgive me,_ it was a late night last night and I didn’t set my alarm. I’m here.”

His boss, Evan, a morning manager that was five years younger than him, stared at him for a beat longer than normal, and uttered, “What the hell is wrong with your head?” 

Shit. Martin raised his fingers to the mottled bruise on the skin, there. Lying came naturally. “God, the most embarrassing thing,” Martin sighed, “I know how it looks – no domestics, I promise! Just tripped over my own two feet and hit my head against the edge of table. Saw some stars, but I think it’s alright.”

Evan looked him over again. Martin returned his gaze steadily. “Get in the back,” he ordered and strode off.

At least he got out of _that_ one. Martin felt particularly expendable at this job, particularly as he was the only thirty-something among a group of University age students. He nevertheless took a breath, looked around the dimly lit café (what _everyone_ wanted, eating breakfast somewhere _dimly lit)_ and went to go hide in the back before it opened.

Almost immediately, Martin saw a problem.

“ _Eurgh!”_ He nearly stuck his foot into a small nest of spiders. One of the corners of the backroom had spiderwebs sprawling out from it, some gathered in hard little clumps that Martin guessed would house eggs. He’d never seen a nest that big before – a few inches across, easy, and he could see the little things teeming all throughout it. Martin went for a dustbin. “ _Patricia,_ who the hell was on cleaning crew last night?” It was hard to believe that this sort of thing had grown overnight, but it was harder to believe that they’d let this go on any longer. Patricia stuck her head up from where she’d been leaning over the prep table.

“Dunno. Duncan and Whatsherface, the redhead? Hang on, what’s wrong with your face?”

“Nothing. Tripped and fell, that’s all. Well, if they’re going to be doing stupid things like this, go _tell Evan that they deserve to be fired,”_ Martin half-joked as he delicately severed the strands. He tried his best not to hurt any of the spiders and, unless his mind was deceiving him, it seemed as if the spiders were cooperating well enough. They trotted onto his dustpan in neat little lines, almost making themselves comfortable. _Weird._ Patricia shrugged her shoulders on the prep table and left the room for the front.

Martin never figured himself the dad type – _being_ a dad had always seemed strange, unwanted, and anxiety-inducing. No, he figured that he had gone straight from being a child himself to being a sixty-five-year-old man, rolling his eyes at the younger generation. He couldn’t help the burst of irritation when Patricia left him alone there, though, in the end, Martin supposed he enjoyed that more than making awkward, fumbling small talk about TikTok and University coursework.

He liked keeping things clean for the cooks who came in, and Martin enjoyed the silence anyway. Maybe this was it for him, Martin considered, doomed to a nice, quiet life where nothing particularly exciting happened. It wasn’t like he had any particularly notable skills to make his life exciting – he wasn’t funny, or handsome, or particularly charismatic. Maybe this was what he deserved and he ought to just start contenting himself with it.

_That’s not true,_ Martin told himself stubbornly, _you stopped someone from getting shot last night. Look at you, gift to the world. People listened to you last night. Even Jon listened to you._

Soon enough, distracting himself in the backroom came to an end as the café opened. Martin found himself busy with assisting customers. It was a _good_ day, Martin told himself as noon passed and the lunch rush came in. At least, it was a good day until Martin dropped a platter onto the floor. It shattered into a thousand unrecognizable pieces, food and ceramic and all.

All eyes in the restaurant turned on him.

Martin had once had a part in a primary school production of Pinocchio – Geppetto, the wooden puppet’s father. While he’d adored the outfits, the lines, the play itself -- he had found that the stage fright had gotten to him so badly that he stuttered or mangled every one of his lines. It hadn’t helped that it was the first school function that his mother had ever seen him in – and, after the sound lecturing he got in the car ride home, most definitely the last.

This felt about half as awful as that did.

_Please don’t clap,_ Martin internally begged himself, _Please don’t clap. People always clap at things like this, and if people clap, I am going to lose my mind._ Nobody clapped. They stared at him, eyes wide, as Martin felt chills up his spine. Dozens of eyes just drilling into him with neutral expressions on their face. The bruise seemed to light up on his face like a Christmas tree. _Right, okay, turn around to your meals, nothing to see here, just a trip._

In unison, everyone turned back to their food. He heard the rustle of fabric, the squeak of the seats, but nothing else. There was a beat pause where all the diners stared at one another, before they returned to chatting. Everything was back to normal.

That … was weird. Not entirely unexpected, though, because really, a plate dropping _wasn’t_ going to make the national news. Martin turned to see Evan right in his face, a few inches shorter than him, and he jumped about a mile. _Don’t be mad, don’t fire me, please._ Christ, he hated how skittish he was around people. He felt goosebumps on his skin and rubbed at his arm.

“Are you alright, Martin?” Evan asked with a surprising concern, reaching out to touch his arm. “Haven’t gotten cut, have you?” His fingers brushed along Martin’s face in a way that seemed _almost_ affectionate. “That looks painful.”

Martin raised an eyebrow at him. He hadn’t particularly known his boss to be one of compassion. He was someone a bit drunk on the power of having hiring/firing capabilities for a staff of about twenty of a very small café in Central London. Still, he looked over himself and gave a slow nod, nervously pulling one of his curls down to his chin. “Uh, yeah?”

And then Evan’s _hands_ were on him, patting his shoulders as if making sure of himself. Martin could only stand, somewhat struck dumb by the action. “Good, good.” It was whispered, and Martin wasn’t sure if he liked the _tone_ in Evan’s voice.

_He’s acting weirdly nice._ And then, Martin thought – _be even nicer if he left me go home early._

“Why don’t you head home for the day? Stay clocked in, obviously, just go rest yourself up. See if you can’t do anything about that bruise.”

It was that moment where Martin believed he was in some sort of weird dream – or that Evan had royally lost his mind. Or, was trying to get him to go home early, claim that he just ghosted his shift, and have every reason to fire him. Martin wouldn’t put it past him – no, he _would,_ because he supposed Evan wouldn’t go to all that effort. Just fire him on the spot, no reason. “Are you sure?” Martin asked, worried. “I – I’m fine, really, it sounded a lot worse than it was.”

But on that point, Evan was firm. “Go home, Martin. You’ve already done more work since you’ve been here than most people do their entire shift.”

Well, Martin _had_ had that thought earlier. He had cleaned up the entire backroom before the shift started, after all, and he wasn’t even sure where Patricia had gone. “But –” Evan started, reaching out again to take ahold of Martin’s sleeve. “Can you work tomorrow night? There’s an opening on the shift.’

“I thought Duncan worked nights, mostly?”

Evan just shook his head fiercely. “He can’t. Please.”

There was a strange urgency in his voice, and Martin figured that – if his security guard work really _was_ going down the drain, then he’d be free enough. “Um, sure.” He took a step away from his boss, backing up towards the door. “Thanks, Evan.”

Evan didn’t break contact with his face as Martin went towards the front door. Pushing it open, Martin was thrust into the partially cloudy London day. He didn’t feel warmed by the rays of sun, however – instead, everything felt just so slightly _off._ Martin recalled his dream with the spiderwoman, and shook his head to scoff at himself.

Doubtlessly, Martin would find a very reasonable explanation to this. And then he would bring it up to his coworkers, and they would laugh about what a dunce Martin was for thinking something weird was going on. He just couldn’t think of it, at the moment, but maybe he was just lucky. People got lucky, sometimes.

He nodded to himself, firm, and continued on his way. Martin _did_ have some errands to run, regardless, and he was going to resolutely enjoy himself.

-

Jon had slept in the alleyway.

He had just managed to get out of Martin’s flat when he had wondered to himself _why_ the hell, precisely, he had left without his cane. Although he had hovered by Martin’s door for some time, he had eventually decided that he had pestered the man for too long. Years of pestering. He limped outside and realized that he had nowhere in the world to go.

No mobile. He knew Melanie and Georgie lived in the same building, of course, but had no idea of the room and he was hardly going to start knocking on doors. Basira and Daisy, God knew where. And that was the grand sum of people who even knew _about_ him, much less cared for his wellbeing in any way.

Jon had struggled to the main street nevertheless, before deciding that he could either strain himself by finding some empty building – or use the perfectly serviceable empty alley. He walked just inside the opening, leaned against the wall, and slid until he hit the floor. Resting against a large trash bin, Jon tried to make himself comfortable.

It could have been worse. The smell was atrocious, yes, but nothing was _actively_ attacking him. And it wasn’t even cold. He brought his legs up to his chest and took a deep breath. At least he had eaten, even if he’d only gotten through about half his meal.

He’d come very, very close to kissing Martin that night. And … that hurt. It hurt to think that, even if Martin couldn’t remember their shared experiences, Martin still had _interest_ in him. There was the validation against Jon’s most pathetic insecurity, that Martin only halfway liked him because of their shared trauma bonding.

And now, Martin thought he was a madman and wouldn’t have a thing more to do with him.

Jon settled his head onto his knees and took a deep breath. He had to make a plan. He couldn’t let himself fall to pieces because Martin had come to the entirely reasonable conclusion that he was full of bullshit and couldn’t be trusted. His hand went up to scrub the back of his head. _Don’t think about how soft Martin’s hands were. Don’t. Don’t think about the sensation of his torso against your own._

If he were lucky, then his direct deposit would still be hitting his account on a regular basis during his experience as a monster. If he weren’t, then he would still have enough to live on for some time. Enough to get a flat for a few months, regardless, and then he could figure something out. He wasn’t fussy. He just wanted somewhere to rest his head that _wasn’t_ a bin.

And maybe he could get Martin Blackwood out of his head, eventually. Martin deserved a good life. A happy life. A life that didn’t include someone waving a gun around just to ask him a few questions.

Jon wasn’t sure why he had told his story so willingly. The urgency of it all, he supposed. Leaving was another curious matter altogether – he had _wanted_ to stay, and tell Martin that he wasn’t lying, to give whatever proof that he could to make Martin _believe_ him – but then Martin had ordered him out and it had seemed rude, hurtful, even _monstrous_ to stay. So Jon had marched out on a leg shooting spikes of pain up his thigh.

He’d have to find something for it, later. Or maybe, if he were lucky, he’d wake up with so little pain that he wouldn’t need one at all. He hadn’t had a good pain day since … well. Months ago, Jon presumed. And he doubted he would get one after sleeping in an alley.

Still, he would need sleep. He needed a lot of it, lately. Jon cracked his eyes open to stare at the London sky above. There weren’t any stars, to which Jon wasn’t surprised, but he nevertheless found the blue-blackness comforting to him. It was the sky. God, he had spent so long without being able to see the sky, or the wind against his face, or a slight chill. He could hear people walking on the other side of the bin, passing him by on the pavement without the slightest idea that he was there.

Jon would manage. He would have to, and he always did. Shutting his eyes, it didn’t take very long for Jon to fall asleep. Now, his sleep was dreamless – and Jon found that very comforting indeed.

-

“Well, don’t _kick_ him, Melanie, that’s hardly going to do it.”

“What, are you going to touch him? He’s been sleeping beside a bin all night. He’s covered in grime.”

“He is _not._ He’s probably cold.’

They hadn’t meant to find Jon in the alley, but Georgie was quietly glad they did. After the previous night, Georgie and Melanie had mechanically gone back into their flat. Daisy and Basira had gone out the front door. Jon had just slumped against the wall outside of Martin’s flat, staring at the wood, and Georgie _wanted_ to help, she had, but she simply … hadn’t. And she didn’t know why.

Guilt flooded through her when she saw Jon resting quietly in the alley. A five o’clock shadow had sprouted across his face, and although he wasn’t covered in grime – as Melanie put it – he looked significantly worse for wear. His legs were sticking straight out, which made the bottom of his feet just visible from the entrance of the alley. She knew that she wasn’t obligated to help him, but Christ alive, the man was a human being, wasn’t he?

But his chest was rising up and down, so – not dead! Great.

“Hang on, hold my bag,” Georgie offered, sliding her purse on over to Melanie.

Melanie scoffed. “Are we actually doing this? Do you – I mean, you don’t actually believe him, what he said, do you? He was rambling like a crazyman.”

Yes, he had been rambling. It was like the words had been ripped out of him, and his story had been nonlinear and confusing. And, apparently, they had dated once upon a time. Georgie had been up most of the night, laying on her back and staring up at the ceiling, trying to put all the pieces together. At two in the morning, she had gotten up and grabbed a notebook and started to take notes.

She had researched Jonathan Sims – or what little existed – extensively. An old Oxford newspaper clipping of him working in the library, the same year she went there. The Magnus Institute website, indicating him as an employee. Beyond that, there was very little that indicated Jonathan Sims ever existed.

But everything he said, when summed up in total, made _sense._

Knowing monsters existed – for real – wasn’t a surprise. That people could go from monsters to normal _was,_ a bit, but not anything that entirely shattered her perception of the world. “Yeah,” Georgie remarked with a sigh, stepping into the alley, “Yeah, I think I do.”

She didn’t ask. She just reached for Jon’s arm and threw it around her shoulders. That was enough to have Jon coming around, and he blinked blearily. His legs scrambled on the ground as he winced in pain. “G-“ He started, breaking off into a yawn. “Georgie? What’re you doing?”

“Getting you off the street.” And, if his story was to be believed – “Saving your arse. Again. Can you stand?”

Indeed, it seemed that Jon could. He was leaning on Georgie somewhat heavily, but he was light enough that it didn’t give her any real trouble. Melanie stood at the mouth of the alley with a hand on her hip. “Well? Are you going to say thank you?”

Jon looked at them both, head swiveling from side to side, before uttering: “You don’t have to do this.”

Georgie nevertheless took a step, and Jon took a step with her. He was easy enough to manipulate out of the alleyway as they turned back to their complex of flats. Martin Blackwood had already left for the morning – he had shut his front door loud enough and thundered down the hallway loud enough to wake up the entire building. Late for work, in that case.

“I know I don’t. Mel, can you get the door?” Georgie heard the jingling of keys as Melanie did just that. “We need to have a talk.”

Georgie put Jon on the sofa, who looked up at the both of them with wide brown eyes. She had seen the man relaxed before, for the briefest moment in time, but now he seemed back to his normal uncomfortable-and-anxious self. His hands, one deeply burned, fidgeted with themselves. “I – I don’t know what happened last night,” Jon started to mumble, “Before you ask, I don’t know – I don’t know why we all just _left,_ how he managed to de-escalate –”

“That’s not why I brought you in here.” Georgie sat on the coffee table across from Jon. Melanie went to place her cane in its holder by the door and sat on the chair cross-legged, regarding them both quietly. “I figured we all just left because nobody particularly wanted to be shot that day, and – whatever you called them – Daisy and Basira – they got the answers they wanted.”

Jon’s expression turned cynical. “Did they? I mean, none of you lot believe me.”

“Wonder why.” Georgie didn’t bother calling Melanie out for the flippant remark. Honestly, she wasn’t positive that _she_ wasn’t the crazy one for believing him through all this. “Georgie, you got a _gun_ pulled on you because of this man. _Seriously,_ I’m not sure if _I_ feel safe having him here.”

Georgie made eye contact with Jon for a few more seconds, and she could see in his eyes that Jon agreed with her. She stood and put a hand on Melanie’s elbow, a silent question of _can I talk to you for a minute._

They went to the kitchen and shut the door behind him. Georgie recognized the look on Melanie’s face. _Stubborn._ Georgie placed both hands on her sides, rubbing up and down comfortingly. “I believe him, babe,” she explained in a soft voice. “And – “

“This is going to sound rude, but I’m not sure whether it _matters_ if you believe him or not.” Melanie was staring intently at her from behind her glasses. “A _gun,_ Georgie. We’ve known this man for a few days and you already had a _gun_ pulled on you because of it.”

“Yes, and I got saved by my stabbing knight in shining armor.” Georgie’s hands settled on her hips.

“Don’t flirt.”

“You make it so easy, though.” Georgie relaxed and moved her hands to Melanie’s shoulders. “I know there might be a danger, but … look, he needs somewhere to stay, at a minimum, while he gets his feet on the ground again. He, himself, is not the _least_ bit dangerous, and those two women got what they wanted from him. They’ve got no reason to show up again. Just for a little while, Melanie?” She stared up at her girlfriend. “Just … I know you don’t believe him. But if he’s telling the truth, it explains _everything_ that we’ve been wondering. _”_

Melanie fell silent at that, which Georgie took as silent, if grim, agreement.

Georgie placed a hand on her neck and pulled her down for a soft kiss. At first, Melanie was solid and unyielding, before wrapping her arms around Georgie in return. Georgie’s fingers stroked the side of her face until they separated. “If something happens, then he’s out,” Melanie warned, “Don’t care if he’s _actually_ your ex or not.” She looked over her shoulder at the kitchen door. “I’m going to take a bath.”

And then Melanie was gone, and Georgie stood in the kitchen for a few more moments summoning up the nerve. Then, with a breath, she pushed through the kitchen door to the man sitting on the sofa.

“Trouble in paradise?” Jon asked timidly. The Admiral had gotten up beside him. He was stroking the brown tabby, over and over, and Georgie could hear him purring loudly. The feline didn’t normally take to strangers, but was cozied up to Jon quite warmly. Jon looked down at the cat. “Funny. Out of everyone, the Admiral seems to be the only one who’s remembered me.”

“You knew him? Before?”

“We, ah. Got him, together. Sort of.” Jon’s fingers found the cat’s chin and started to scratch it, causing the Admiral to look up in euphoria. He was purring so loudly that Georgie swore she could _see_ it in his throat. “Found him wailing outside of our flat. Calling armies to attention.” His eyes flicked up to Georgie. “If you don’t mind me asking, how do _you_ recall that memory if I’m not in it?”

It was a good question. Georgie sat next to Jon on the sofa, now, patting the Admiral’s back. “Not very well,” she admitted. “It’s all sort of … dim? I remember flashes. Finding him in the alley, taking him back, him _immediately_ puking when he got in. But I don’t recall you, at all.” She paused. “I have a few moments like that. Not many, not as many as Melanie, where things sort of get foggy.”

“Melanie does?”

There was the crux of it, Georgie supposed. She considered what she was saying carefully. “Her … her eyes, they weren’t always that way. And we’ve sort of mutually assumed it was some sort of psychotic break, on her part. But neither of us can quite _remember.”_ She furrowed her brows. “We were _dating._ She stayed with _me_ during her recovery. I would’ve remembered if she had done something like that. It would’ve been one of the worst moments of my life. I wouldn’t just _forget.”_

“Trauma has a way of doing that to people, though.”

“Not to _me,_ Jon. I _remember_ all the traumatic moments of my life _crystal clear.”_

That made Jon fell silent. The Admiral crawled onto his lap and curled up, enjoying the warmth that he found there. Jon didn’t move his hand to follow him, instead thinking. “Well,” he added softly, “It wasn’t a psychotic break, no. Like I said last night. Strategic. Brave, even, I wish I had half the nerve she showed.” A beat passed between them. “So you believe me.”

“I do, yeah. There’s been too much weird shit happening _not_ to believe you. And – what you said about the Slaughter, and Melanie. Last night, after she cut Basira, she … she had a fever the rest of the night. Low grade. Could be nothing, but it seemed a little too coincidental.”

That seemed to make Jon’s ears perk up. “A fever. Right. You wouldn’t consider her a violent person, normally? She hasn’t fought anyone, raged, anything like that? Hasn’t shown any signs of … slipping.”

Georgie shook her head.

“Good.” Jon settled his back against the couch and sighed. “The last thing I need is another Entity making an Avatar out of one of my friends.”

Even if Georgie had listened to the story, and if she believed it, it seemed far and far away now. Georgie couldn’t picture Melanie as some sort of violent brute of some magical fear god named the Slaughter, any more than she could imagine herself meeting an avatar of the End. Given that she’d been assisting Melanie’s nightmares with the Oculothorax for _months,_ now, seeing him being buddy-buddy with something called the Eye _was_ a little more plausible. She had just figured that it was some sort of strange traumatic echo – she lost her eyes, saw a man covered in eyes, it seemed to fit.

“So what now?” Georgie clapped her hands together. “Stopping everything. Bringing all the Entities down. Where do we get started?”

On the couch, Jon tilted his head back and let out an exhausted groan. “Georgie, I’ve _just_ woken up, please don’t ask me to kill God until at _least_ noon.”

“No, come on, don’t be like that.” Georgie reached over and shook Jon by his knobbly knee. “You’ve come back to yourself. There’s got to be something next – bringing down one of your fear demons.”

Because she _did_ want to help. If these things had hurt people she once called friends – hell, she knew one of them _had_ hurt her girlfriend, even indirectly – then she wanted them gone. And it was as simple as that.

“Entities,” Jon instinctively corrected, “And you can’t. You can’t eradicate the _concept_ of fear, Georgie, we can’t all be like you. And as long as fear exists, those things will too.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes to look at her. There was something warm and soft in them, at apparent contrast to the hard angles and worry lines on the man. “All I’ve ever wanted was for everyone I care about to be safe and for the world not to end. You helped with that already – if you and Melanie hadn’t blinded Elias, I never would’ve found him. So. You’ve done your part, and I’ve done mine. Now it’s time just to move on.” He paused, and for a moment, he seemed … sad. “You’re all safe. Whether you believe me, or think I’ve gone mad, or – that’s all irrelevant.”

Georgie felt bad for the man. The way he described it, he’d been close to Martin, and frankly … well, he had sort of glossed over a brief safehouse in Scotland, but Georgie had begun to suspect that Jon’s relationship with Martin hadn’t been all that platonic. He certainly _looked_ like his heart was the slightest touch cracked.

She tapped Jon’s knee. “I believe you,” Georgie reminded, “And you can stay here so long as you don’t bring any trouble in.” Jon cracked a smile at her on the sofa, and Georgie felt like she was missing out on some sort of inside joke. “Starting your new, post-Eye life and all.”

“Right.” Jon leaned up from the couch and down at the Admiral. “Could I – I mean, possibly. Could I start with a shower?”

A short bark of a laugh erupted from Georgie’s throat. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, though I would suggest waiting until Mel gets out of the bath.”

-

After what had proven to be an exceptionally exhausting afternoon, Martin had opted to take the tube home. He leaned against the window, a bag full of things to make for dinner clutched tightly in his grasp. It lurched to a start and Martin sighed.

Maybe it was all an elaborate dream. That was Martin’s current theory. Maybe the past few _days_ had all been an elaborate dream, or maybe Jon had put a curse on him, or, if he was going to start believing in things like _curses,_ then maybe Jon _was_ right and he was being taunted by some gigantic fear god.

Or maybe it was all an elaborate dream. Martin half-closed his eyes. The shop had been crowded when he went, but unnaturally so, people seemed to make way for him as he approached. He’d had a brief moment where he couldn’t find his card and the cashier had waved him off, saying that it was not a problem. It had started to rain upon his exit and Martin had angrily chastised himself for not having an umbrella, only to be given one by a woman in professional dress. She had gotten rained on.

_It’s still not impossible that people are just being nice to you,_ Martin thought to himself, _Look at you, man in charge. People listen to you. You’re nice. Friendly. Funny. They’re just being nice to you._

It was an explanation, certainly, but Martin found himself wanting to get home and sort out this very weird day more than anything else. The tube jostled him and Martin’s arm tightened around his bag, shutting his eyes entirely as he thought about it. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe he was missing an obvious solution.

Outside, Martin figured that it was still raining. More than a passing stray thought was given to Jon, and he hoped that – crazy or not – Jon was dry. And warm, too.

He wouldn’t let himself feel guilty, of all things. He’d already done enough, and Martin wasn’t going to think about Jon _any_ longer.

When the tube slid to a stop, Martin opened his eyes. He was looking directly at a _very_ handsome stranger. Hard to tell what they did – they weren’t wearing a suit that implied some sort of business, but well-ironed trousers and a sweater vest. A professor, maybe? They had a touch of gray at the temples and large glasses that slid down their nose a bit.

Languidly, Martin thought, _yup, there he is. My future husband. We’ll tell our kids, yes, we met right there on the tube, it was an incredibly romantic London story, and no, the car didn’t smell of piss at all …_

It wasn’t like Martin was going to do anything about it. It was simply the passing daydream that occurred to everyone, now and then, and Martin found that it took some of his attention off the problem at hand. He twisted his head subtly to see what book he was reading, and his heart fluttered. _He’s reading poetry! On the tube. He’s either a gigantic prick or the love of my life. Jesus, kiss me._

The stranger furrowed his eyebrows but didn’t look up from his book. The tube slid to another stop and both Martin and the stranger stood. When he put his book away, Martin saw a wedding ring flash on the man’s finger. _Aw, piss. It was nice while it lasted, then. Parting is such sweet sorrow, but I refuse to be second fiddle._

Grasping the bag in his hand, Martin stepped outside of the tube. Just as he crossed over the gap, though, he felt someone grab his wrist from behind. It was Mr. Married Handsome Stranger, just behind him. Martin raised an eyebrow at him, opened his mouth to utter a, “Can I help you?”, and then he was being kissed.

Rather passionately, actually – the stranger had thrown both arms around Martin’s neck and pulled him forward. The cars left, leaving them tottering dangerously close to the edge of the corridor. Martin’s hands went straight out to his side and then to the stranger’s chest. Of course, there was the instinct to push him away, but if Martin pushed but an inch, the stranger wouldn’t precisely be _minding the gap._

The stranger’s hands were in his hair, ruffling it and digging somewhat into his scalp. Martin supposed that he looked a sight with his curls pushed back from his head at awkward angles. He was making _noises,_ too, and Martin supposed they might’ve been ones of arousal – which didn’t make _sense,_ because what the _hell_ was even going on!?

Eventually, Martin was able to think clearly enough. He put his hands on the man’s shoulders and stepped backward, pulling them both away from the edge. The stranger’s legs didn’t quite comply, and he tripped to fall against Martin’s chest. That, at least, broke the kiss. The stranger looked at him adoringly, and Martin felt his face grow hot. It wasn’t entirely embarrassment, but rather spluttering anger.

“ _What the hell, man!?”_ Martin asked as he pulled away, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t even _know_ you! You’re wearing a _ring!”_ He gestured frantically towards the stranger’s hand. The stranger stared at him. There was something dull and somewhat hazy in his eyes, as if it was covered by the thin web of a cataract. “Are you _mental!?”_

The stranger stepped forward again, reaching his arm out. Martin realized with a start that he was trying to _kiss_ him again. “ _Get away from me!”_ They were starting to draw a crowd – enough people had stopped to stare from the kiss itself, and Martin’s spluttering only encouraged more people to stick around.

He stood, tilting his head to the side. There was still something funny about his eyes, a little off. And then, to Martin’s horror, he took a large step back. He was at the edge of the tunnel. He raised his leg back again to take another step back –

Martin rushed forward, looping an arm around his waist. He didn’t stop trying to take a step back, which led Martin to have to _drag_ him forward from the edge. After Martin pulled him several feet into the station, Martin let go of him. A small crowd had circled, all staring. All watching him. Them.

The stranger had been _struggling_ against his grip, trying desperately to get away from Martin. Even now as Martin released him, he watched in horror as he tried to take another step back again. “What are you doing? Just _stay right there!”_

As if frozen in place, the stranger stopped moving. His glasses had fallen low over his nose; there wasn’t any way that he was seeing comfortably. Martin stood stock-still, his chest heaving with breath. There was still a crowd circled around them, but nobody seemed to talk at the bizarre scene they had laid witness to. Martin began to realize how much bigger than the guy he was, and he hoped – he hoped that people didn’t think --

Martin had to get out of there.

He turned on his heel and pushed through the crowd, uttering soft noises of ‘sorry’ and ‘ _excuse me’_ as he made his way towards the entrance of the station. Martin half-walked, half-ran out into the rainy London afternoon, bag still clutched in his hand. He’d forgotten his umbrella on the tube. It didn’t matter, his flat was nearby, and he just had to get _home_ so he could _sort this out._

The rain fell harder as Martin continued his panicked half-jog through the London streets, occasionally butting up against the flow of pedestrian raffic. Still, people seemed to part well enough for him, which only seemed to spur Martin’s terror.

“ _Christ Christ Christ Christ Christ,”_ Martin muttered under his breath as he pushed through people, finding that he didn’t have to push very much at all. Eventually, he came to a street corner with his flat complex on the other side. He stood for a moment before he felt another hand at his back – “Sorry, do you need any help?” The voice asked, and a terrified noise died in Martin’s throat. _Did I do that? Did I make them ask? Am I doing all this?_

Scared, Martin leapt into the busy London street when he thought he saw a gap. That was when he heard a horn blare at him.

A large truck, meant for deliveries, was barreling down towards him. Heart thundering in his chest, Martin stopped right in his tracks and _watched._ He was stuck to the spot, a true deer in the headlights. _Move move move move, you stupid idiot,_ Martin begged himself desperately, but he was the one person he didn’t have to listen to. And then: _Please don’t hit me!_

Seconds before he would’ve hit Martin, the truck veered to the right, away from him. Instead, it collided with _one-two-three_ cars with a godawful impact of metal clanging on metal. People screamed on the other side of the street as they fled out of the vehicle’s way, some leaping to the sides here and there. Martin heard the _screech_ of brakes, but it wasn’t enough to prevent the truck from slamming into the storefront just a few doors down from Martin’s flat.

Smoke started to billow from the truck’s engine. Everywhere, vehicles and pedestrians stopped to stare at the chaotic scene. Martin looked down and saw brake marks on the road, and then backed up with trembling legs onto the pavement. One car was hit directly in their door, nearly bending the entire vehicle in half long-ways.

Martin dropped his bag and took off at a sprint for his flat.

He dropped his keys twice as he hurried to unlock his door. Martin could hear sirens from outside the building, barreling down the street towards what was sure to be a gigantic scene. Chaos.

Finally, Martin opened the door and pushed right through into the relative safety of his flat. Nobody to talk to, or think at, or even _exist_ in his flat. He couldn’t hurt anyone in here, because Martin was sure now more than ever – he had _done_ all that. He could’ve _killed_ someone out there. Hell, who knew? Maybe he _had._

As soon as the door shut behind him, Martin’s back hit it and he slid down to the floor. Bringing his knees up to his chest, Martin shook in fear as he stared blankly ahead at the darkened interior of his home. In his direct line of sight, there was a large spiderweb that was taking up most of his kitchen doorframe. But Martin didn’t see it. He was staring at nothing, shaking, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t make sense of it. He couldn’t make sense of anything that had happened that day.

Overall, though, one thing seemed very clear:

_I’m – I’m a danger! I’m a menace! I can’t – I’m going to hurt people! I’ve got to stay inside!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Discussions of car accident, mentions of being forcefully trapped inside

Basira hadn’t meant for her job to ever get so _creepy._ It was that, on occasion, investigative journalism really lined up with stalker-like behavior. Sitting in front of the library where Georgie Barker worked as a librarian, Basira definitely felt a little like a creep.

More to the point, she felt _bad._ Last night had turned from bad to worse almost immediately. She hadn’t expected those two (Georgie Barker and Melanie King, easy enough to look up given their media presences) to show up – hadn’t expected Barker to raise a cricket bat at her girlfriend’s head. Although Basira didn’t _blame her,_ not really, Basira knew there was only one way things could go when Daisy was threatened.

Maybe she hadn’t needed to bring the gun, but she had no idea what this Jon could do. They had presumed he would be dangerous, and maybe he still was, but they had wanted to prepare themselves. But it had gone bad. Basira was only glad that it hadn’t gone worse.

The … story he had told, because Basira was hesitant to call it anything other than a story, had answered most all of her questions. Most.

Some things, Basira had to admit, made sense. There was a fog covering most of her memories for the past six months; she had attributed it to the steady haze of too much work. Even if she hated to admit it, the stress of working such long hours, so many investigative leads, would affect anyone’s memory. That reasoning was only corroborated by Daisy’s similar fogginess, except …

Well. Nobody could really remember where the scars on Daisy’s face had come from. They didn’t look like they had come from an animal, but there was nothing in their case notes that indicated what could’ve happened. How deep they were. It seemed like a strange thing to just _forget._

She was willing to _humor_ him. That was all. But to humor him, she had to sit in front of the library.

Basira had debated on going inside the library itself, but thought that making a scene in Georgie Barker’s workplace wouldn’t do anything to help her case. So instead she waited in her car, empty coffee cup in the center console, and tapped away at her laptop.

Through a mixture of immoral connections and dubiously legal infiltrations, Daisy had gotten a copy of the official report on the incident at the Magnus Institute. An electrical fire.

An electrical fire that had started at seventeen discrete points within the building. Basira still privately thought that Jon had something to do with the fire, but magic eyeball powers or not, one man couldn’t do all that. Something else had happened, and she was intent on finding out what it was. Jon knew something that he wasn’t telling all of them, she knew, even if his entire crazy story was true. Or maybe Jon didn’t know – but there was more to the story.

Daisy believed him more than she let on. _Jon’s_ explanation for the scars on her face – some crazy vampire hunters – had made Basira scoff, but Daisy had gone very quiet, indeed. His story about how he rescued her from some hell dimension called the Buried had caused her to start picking at her fingers.

Early afternoon passed and Basira sat up straight in her seat, eyes peeled for any glimpse of the short, squat bushy-haired woman. A quick glimpse near the flat complex hadn’t yielded any trace of Jon. There was a chance that he was still in Martin’s flat, but Basira was going to go about this _properly._ No more break-ins. Just a friendly chat at Georgie’s workplace to pick her brain.

There she was.

Basira exited her car and took a few steps against the flow of librarygoers. They parted easily around her, though not without a few unintentional bumps to the shoulder and a few dirty looks. It took a minute for Georgie to recognize her, but when she did, she stood still and reached for her mobile.

“I’m going to call the police.”

Holding her arms up in surrender, Basira stood rooted to the spot. “I’m just here to talk. I haven’t got my weapon on me.” Her left arm went to jostle the ends of her jacket, showing off her hips. There was no holster there and no weapon . “Also broad daylight, and plenty of people around.”

Plenty of people who were utterly ignoring the two women stood stock-still in the middle of the pavement, aside from a few dirty looks, granted.

At first, Basira thought that Georgie was going to call the police anyway. She prepared to make a speedy exit, but for once, the world was on her side.

Georgie crossed her arms over one another and jerked her head towards a bench placed in the front of the library. Basira nodded, relented, and went to sit down on it. Georgie sat a few inches away, knees pointed towards her.

First things first.

“I’m sorry,” Basira apologized. “I didn’t mean for it to escalate like that. I only brought the thing because – I didn’t know what I was dealing with, with Jon. I thought it better to be safe than sorry.”

The other woman was staring straight ahead, lips drawn in a firm line. “How’s your side?”

Basira’s wound hadn’t been that deep, but damn, had it hurt. She hadn’t been expecting the blind woman to have such good aim. “Fine,” she remarked, her hand going to rest over her jacket. She could feel the bandage underneath the fabric. “How’s, um. I don’t know, the nerves?”

“Don’t have any.” Georgie turned to Basira and looked her over. Even according to Jon, they hadn’t known each other that well. Still, they had been part of a team for a united purpose. Basira could appreciate that – friends were a luxury, allies were a strategic utility. “What did you want, exactly?”

“I need to talk to Jon. The fire at the Institute _can’t_ have just been an accident, and if something else – even presuming Jon’s crazy story is true – burned it down, then we need to know why. We need to know if there’s something _bigger_ about to come.”

Georgie seemed to consider this, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. Basira wondered if she’d have to go into it – why she just needed to _know,_ even if it wouldn’t affect anyone’s _safety,_ even if it didn’t ultimately do anything – that she just needed to know the answers.

“Don’t like being made the fool. What Jon’s saying, it makes sense. And, in that case, someone’s taken my memories for _years_ and played with them.” Georgie seemed cross. “It’s different with you lot, who’ve only known him for a little while. Apparently I dated Jon for _years._ There must’ve been a point where he was a big part of my life and just _not_ remembering isn’t …” She trailed off, shutting her eyes. “I don’t like being made the fool.”

Georgie understood. Understood the desire to _know._ Basira couldn’t possibly keep her head down and ignore these unexplored threads in her life. “So you’ll help me find him, then?”

“He’s staying with us. But, and no offense, I’m not sure if he’ll willingly talk to you. Martin’s shut him out and he seems to want to move on. Even if you don’t bring your gun, I don’t know if he’ll help.”

Basira rummaged around in her jacket for something. She had expected that. Jon might not have the same curiosity she did. After all, the fire had worked _exceptionally_ well in his favor (at least when it came to him _not_ being a monster), and poking the bear on that investigation might not provide answers he wanted.

But there were friends. Had been friends. And friends did things for one another, even if they weren’t particularly keen on it.

“Give him this.” Basira extracted Jon’s rib from her jacket. The lighter, the one with the curious spiderweb design on it, clinked against it. She had considered giving Georgie that instead, but a rib seemed altogether more personal. Jon could’ve picked up the lighter from any-old-where, but, according to him, the rib had been taken by some gigantic meat-man. “Tell him it’s a sign of goodwill.”

Georgie took it from her and inspected it carefully. “What _is_ it?”

“It’s, ah – “ It had been confirmed by one of Basira’s contacts at a medical school, but it still felt utterly ridiculous to say. “It’s, um, a rib? A human rib. Remember what Jon was telling us about that Jared Hopworth man?”

Letting out a disgusted grunt, Georgie inadvertently dropped it. It clattered against the pavement below, but thankfully, the bone did not break. She leaned down to retrieve it. “You found Jon’s _rib?”_

“I thought he might want it back? I don’t know. I’m surprised he even kept it.” Georgie was dusting the rib off with the inside of her jacket carefully. Basira felt her lip start to curl. “We found it in his desk.”

And then, the moment of absurdity hit the both of them.

Twelve hours ago, Basira had been pointing a gun at her while she was trying to protect a man who had been haunting at least four people’s dreams as some sort of shambling eye monster. Now, Basira had just handed her an adult man’s human rib. In the middle of London, in the middle of a public library, while people milled about all around them. The clouds threatened rain, but had yet to fall.

They dissolved into hysterical laughter, the both of them, until there were tears in their eyes. Basira pressed her palms against her sockets to keep herself pulled together. Georgie clutched the rib tightly, laughing so hard into her elbow that she started to cough.

Basira loved Daisy violently, in more ways than just romance. She was her partner, her foundation, her steady conscience. They were on the same page more than anyone else Basira had ever met, and Basira couldn’t see herself being with anyone else in any serious capacity. Daisy was it for her.

But it was so goddamn nice to sit with someone new and experience a shared weirdness.

“God, I –” Georgie fanned her face, taking deep gulps of air. “I can’t believe this is happening. I’m sure you … I mean, is this even the weirdest case for you, investigative journalist?”

“What, is some posh eyeman who may or may not have committed arson the weirdest case I’ve ever gotten? _Yes,_ I say it’s a change of pace from the usual corporate fraud that I normally investigate. Aren’t you – you’ve got a podcast, surely this isn’t the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard of?”

“No, sorry, I don’t often get called to a place and get told that one of the ghosts there is my ex- _boyfriend!”_

They laughed again, loudly and uproariously enough to attract a few curious stares from passerby. Georgie’s eye makeup had started to run down her face, and was utterly smudged besides. “I’m losing my _mind,”_ Basira chuckled as she tittered off again. “Christ.”

“I’ll – I’ll tell him,” Georgie promised, stashing the rib into her messenger bag. “I mean, why not, right? After everything else. Apparently we were all a big happy family before this.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we are. Thanks.” It took a few seconds for Basira to wipe the grin off her face. “I seriously appreciate you doing this, Georgie. Investigators, the lot of us, right?”

“Makes for good company, I guess.” Sighing, Georgie stood from the bench and readjusted her bag around herself. “We’re, um – good, yeah?”

“I’m the one who pointed a gun at you. Why’re you asking me?”

“I mean, I did have a cricket bat primed to hit your … “

“Girlfriend, yeah.”

“Right. And _my_ girlfriend did stab you a bit. So I think asking if we’re good is fair.”

Basira had to think about it. She usually didn’t bring others into her investigations, at least not more than informants or experts. But this was _weird,_ and Basira felt like she would be seeing her again. “Yeah,” she remarked, “We’re good. We’re a team, all of us, together. If we were a team before – well. Whatever I was doing, I know I wasn’t an idiot. If I trusted you then, I trust you now.”

Georgie seemed surprised at the admission, but nevertheless smiled and stuck out a hand. Basira took it and shook it. “A team it is, then.”

-

That was a little better. Jon sat cross-legged on the couch, his still-damp hair brushed back behind his ears. A mug was clutched between his hands, still too hot to drink.

It was nearing early afternoon, and the day had been busy. Melanie had stepped out to the charity shop on the next road over and gotten him a serviceable cane before Georgie had gone to work. Jon supposed that using the old one in Martin’s flat would’ve done, but that would’ve required knocking on Martin’s door.

When Melanie had brought him the cane, she had casually mentioned which one was Martin’s. 37. Jon’s mind latched onto that bit of knowledge – _you could pop by, bring something nice, try to explain –_ but he forced that back into his brain. No, he would be leaving Martin well enough alone. He had already ruined his life enough. Bad enough that Georgie had physically dragged Jon back into hers.

With a cane, the world had been his oyster for a few hours. Jon had stopped at the bank to get another bank card, and then had gone to the same charity shop to actually get some clothing to call his own. The lack of personal possessions hadn’t bothered him much – he had been living in the Archives for a bloody long time before. He placed in an online order for a laptop and a mobile and returned to Georgie and Melanie’s flat feeling a little more normal.

He was unhappy, of course, but loads of normal people were unhappy. Perhaps unhappy wasn’t the right word. He felt like he’d gotten broken up with. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

Jon still had Martin’s jacket around him. When he had left Martin’s flat, he hadn’t bothered taking it off. It meant more, now. He tugged it around him on the sofa and enjoyed the warmth that it provided. Yes, perhaps Martin was no longer in his life, but he could take comfort in the memory of it. It made him feel more put-together.

Melanie had locked herself up in the office. Jon had heard the screenreader going, earlier – she was typing up the transcript for one of Georgie’s podcasts, as well as an article of her own reviewing a locally open restaurant. That left Jon on his own. Georgie had given him access to her laptop while she was at work, and Jon started to look for recipes. The least he could do, after everything, was make dinner. He wasn’t an accomplished chef, but any common fool could follow a recipe.

Jon started the water to boil for pasta, retrieving a few other things from the fridge. Fettucine alfredo. It brought back fond enough memories of a certain night in the safehouse, when Martin had come with all the ingredients in tow from the village. Jon, half aghast at himself with the sentimentality of it all, had lit _candles._ He was hesitant to call it a date, still, even if he’d fallen asleep with his legs twisted up in Martin’s own. Martin had fallen asleep with his hands under Jon’s shirt, resting on the small of his back.

He shook his head from it and started to look up flats nearby. No, everyone else had forgotten him, Jon would do his best to forget that time in his life, too.

Some minutes passed and Jon had gotten himself lost in the search of it. He was just about to add the pasta to the roiling water when he heard – “What are you doing?”

His arm twitched, scattering the noodles across the floor. “Shit. Sorry. Um. Dinner?” Jon asked, immediately dropping to his feet to gather them up. “I’ve just dropped the noodles on the floor.”

“Yeah, I know. I can hear. Ears are functional.” Melanie walked over to the ingredients Jon had set out on the corner and started to feel around them. “Oh. Alfredo, something, isn’t it?”

“You’ve all just been so kind – _Admiral,_ get _away_ – that I thought I’d … help, somehow.” Jon continued to gather up the noodles, before standing and going to the sink. He started to wash them off thoroughly. “I know having me here isn’t exactly the ideal scenario.”

“Yes, you nearly got my girlfriend shot.” There was beat pause, before Melanie added in a softer, frustrated tone, “My girlfriend nearly got herself shot.”

Jon didn’t want to verbally agree, to make it seem as if he were trying to save his own skin. Instead, he added the pasta to the water and set a timer. A saucepan was up next, the necessary ingredients falling in.

Melanie handed him ingredients as he reached for them, the small of her back against the counter. The Admiral wound his way between her legs. “For the longest time, I just thought it was … just something I didn’t want to remember, so my brain wouldn’t let me remember. How this,” Melanie gestured to her eyes, “All happened. But you’re saying that’s because of you. And it wasn’t me having a – a psychotic break, or a suicide attempt, or whatever me and Georgie have been telling ourselves for months.”

“No. It was actually – I envied you, for having the courage. The fortitude.” Jon stared down at the floor. “I tried to get Martin to run off with me after I did the same, but I knew I’d never be able to – not _really._ I’m really not all that brave, you see.”

“You sure get into a lot of bad situations for someone who’s not very brave.”

“Yes, well. Luck, I suppose,” Jon murmured, tilting his head towards her. “Are you saying that you believe me?”

“Georgie does. And Georgie’s got sense. And,” Melanie finally added, “I trust her. That’s all there is, really. I trust her.”

It was a tellingly vague answer, but one that didn’t imply immediate hostility. Jon would take it. He stirred the sauce thoughtfully. “Well, that’s very brave of you, too.” There was a beat. “I’ll be out of your hair after too much longer, you have my word. I’m looking for flats – well, maybe not _this_ flat,” Jon gestured to the condemned dwelling on the screen, “But a flat. I’ll get a job. Nice and tidy.”

“That’s that, then? You’re not at all curious why your prison suddenly burned down, letting you free.”

Jon blinked. “Not every fire’s got to be investigated, Melanie. The building was old. Wonder it didn’t happen sooner. I’m going to count myself fortunate and that’s that. I – I _miss_ certain aspects of it, but I know it’s better this way. To be out.”

“Since when have _you_ ever counted yourself fortunate? I’ve known you for two days and I know that’s not true.”

That was a fair point, Jon considered, but the idea of _willingly_ throwing himself back into all that mess? No. Being an Avatar had felt good. God, it had felt so good, being so drunk on power and ability, feeling like he could do anything – but it wasn’t _real._ It wasn’t _him._ It wasn’t the _important things in life._ He was happy where he was, stirring sauce and watching pasta limpen and –

The entire flat _jerked_ like a torpedo slamming into an ocean liner. All of the walls seemed to shudder before resting still. Melanie’s hand had slammed down onto the counter to steady herself. While the sauce pan was unharmed, some of the water splashed out against Jon’s already burnt hand. Swearing loudly, he went to run it under cold water. “The _hell_ is that?” He hissed to himself, letting the water soothe his hand.

Melanie didn’t respond, instead going to the front window to stare outside at the street. From the living room, from the other side of the kitchen door, Jon heard her swear.

_Something’s happened. The end of the world is happening. It’s been a few days and only one person’s pointed a gun at you. You’ve had it too good, Sims._ Standing frozen at the sink, Jon tried to think of a defense plan. Any defense plan. His powers hadn’t manifested anymore, he couldn’t predict what was coming to attack him, but he could – yes, the cricket bat, Georgie’s cricket back from last night, he could –

“Jon,” Melanie called from the window. “Get over here. I can’t see what’s happening, but I can hear – there’s been an accident.”

Jon placed a few icecubes in a rag and held it against his hand as he bustled out, standing next to Melanie at the window. There, the scene was obvious. A large delivery truck had veered onto the other side of the road. Jon saw _one-two-three_ cars lying askew – one nearly bent in half, the others knocked to the side like children’s playthings. The truck had kept going, slamming into a convenience store where Jon had bought milk for the alfredo forty minutes ago.

“Jon.”

“Right, sorry. There’s been an accident – you said that. Right. Looks like a truck hit a few cars and hit the 24/7 shop.”

“You think anyone’s been hurt?”

“I, ah – “ Jon squinted. “The drivers are still in their cars. All of them. There’s people gathering, and a lot of people on their mobiles, and I, ah, they look … one of the people in the car doesn’t look well, no.” The windshield had been shattered, so Jon couldn’t get a good look in, but the fact that it had clearly been shattered from the inside wasn’t much reassurance. He felt a cold shudder run down his spine.

“Are any of the cars green?”

“What?” Perplexed, Jon turned towards her. “What does it matter if any of the cars are – “

Melanie gave him a swift hit to the side, enough to make Jon whine lowly in pain. “ _Lime green, Jon, now._ It’s five-thirty. _”_

“No! No, one’s a red, one’s a black, and one’s a grey. What does it – Georgie’s car is lime green,” Jon realized with a groan. “God, I’m an idiot. Sorry. Yeah. No, doesn’t look like she’s involved at all.”

There was the sound of thick thudding in the hallway outside, fast and frantic. Jon recognized those footsteps. He’d heard them this morning. Martin, clearly late for work. And now, the same thudding footsteps, this time coming _back._ “Martin!” Jon shouted on impulse, reaching for the front door. He yanked it open and stepped outside. “Martin, are you –”

The most he was able to glimpse was Martin, turning to go into his door. Martin didn’t stop to talk. He didn’t look hurt, but Jon saw that his usually freckled, fair skin had gone very very pale indeed. Such a visage of fright was on his face that Jon found himself struck silent. Martin was _terrified._

And then Martin’s door was slamming shut. There was no more of him, no signs from within the flat. Jon stood in the hallway, stupefied, when he heard the lift doors ding and slide open.

“Jon?” Georgie called out, stepping off the lift. She was clearly sweating somewhat, distinct from her rain-sodden windbreaker that she had on. A flash of purple hair zoomed by Jon as Melanie went to Georgie, pressing her hands on her shoulders and face. “ _Mel,_ Melanie, I’m alright! I was three cars behind the one that got hit.”

_“Three, Jesus – “_ Melanie muttered, dropping a kiss to the top of her hair.

“But I saw all that happened!” Extricating herself from her girlfriend’s embrace, Georgie instead took her hand and walked back towards the flat. Her other hand was stowed in her windbreaker. “Christ, it was – Martin was just _standing_ there, in the crosswalk, and the truck swerved not to hit him!”

“Martin!?”

“Yeah! And then Martin just kept on running to his flat! People could have been _killed,_ for God’s sake, I don’t know what he was doing just standing there like that. I don’t know why that truck swerved like that, but Martin was scared out of his _wits.”_

Jon was immediately walking to Martin’s door. 37. He knew it would come in handy. “Martin!” Jon called once more, knocking politely on the door – before he figured that the time for politeness was over with. He pounded hard, his burnt hand protesting at the friction. “Martin, open up this door! Are you alright?”

The pounding faded as Jon’s hand began to feel heavier. Soon, it seemed as if he could hardly even hold it upright. His hand fell, still balled into a fist, at his side. _I should turn around,_ Jon thought to himself blearily, _and leave him alone._

“Are you alright? Your eyes are a bit hazy – what about Martin?”

Jon blinked languidly at the duo. Yes, what about Martin, indeed? “He’s fine,” Jon replied dismissively, clearing his head of thoughts as he turned back towards Georgie’s. “He wasn’t hit. He’ll come out for help if he needs it. The, um – you are alright, aren’t you, Georgie?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Melanie, _really,”_ Georgie giggled as Melanie started to pepper the top of her face and hair with kisses. There was benefits, Jon presumed, to dating someone nearly a foot shorter than you. His stomach twisted in memory. “There’s no need for that.”

Martin, and thoughts concerning him, faded from Jon’s mind as he went back into Georgie’s flat. The idea of returning to Martin’s flat seemed more than distasteful – Jon would consider chopping off one of his fingers rather than return again. It was as if the very door itself had screamed _LEAVE ME ALONE_ at him.

Yes. Right. He was going to leave Martin to his own devices, like he originally planned. Vehicle accident or not, Martin’s life was better without him in it, and Jon was willing to give that to him. “Oh, it smells nice in here. Melanie, you’re cooking?”

“I helped. Jon’s idea, though. Fettucine alfredo.”

Georgie let out a soft moan as they went inside, and Jon went to go check on the sauce. He heard sirens approach from far away. They had it handled – for once, Jon thought to himself smugly, something just _wasn’t his problem._ He didn’t have to save everybody’s life, or try to, anyway. He could just have dinner with his friends.

Georgie walked over to the coat rack to hang up her windbreaker. As she did, something solid inside one of the pockets rattled against the solid wood surface. “I can’t believe I nearly forgot,” she mumbled, withdrawing something long and off-white and returning to Jon. Jon turned to her, eyebrow raised. “Shows you how weird my life’s been these past few days.”

“What is it, Georgie?” Melanie asked, turning back from the counter to face her girlfriend. Georgie extended what was in her hand to Jon.

Jon hated how he could recognize his own rib so immediately.

“A peace offering, from Basira Hussain,” Georgie commented. “She wants to talk to you.”

-

_If I go outside, I’m going to hurt people._

_If I stay inside, I’m going to die._

The two sentences had been playing through his head like a mantra ever since he’d locked the door behind him. Oh, he had heard Jon banging in the door, but _LEAVE ME ALONE_ had burst from his head before he could even think it through. And the banging had stopped. Martin only hoped that Jon didn’t take _‘leave me alone’_ as jumping out the nearest window, because Martin would no longer be surprised.

After the initial panic had set in, Martin had tried to make a plan. He took stock of what he had in the kitchen – it would do for a bit, although he really could’ve done with the bag of groceries that he’d dropped on the road. He had made plans to call his places of work ( _they’d agree, because of course they’d agree, and it was just for a few days until he could sort this)._

All the while, Martin had heard sirens. He had seen the lights flashing out his window, even, but the idea of looking out there – of seeing something – was too much. Martin had instead paced around his flat, anxiety-ridden, before evening came and he had turned on the news, just to put something else in his brain.

Two dead.

Martin immediately turned it back off again before they could get into it. He’d just seen a flash of the scene – the truck, collided into the shop front, and the rolling message across the bottom, and he went to go vomit.

What was _happening_ to him? He hadn’t wanted anyone to get hurt, to die – he didn’t know what was _going_ on, but it had to have been his fault. It had to have been. People hopped to do whatever he said, and now two people were dead because of him.

His gut instinct was to go out and find Jon. This took place solidly in a very _weird_ category, and Jon – lying or not – was _weird._ But going out took on the risk of hurting people, Jon included, and Martin couldn’t do that again. Instead, he stayed in his flat and drew the curtains until Martin was left in the dark. That seemed more comfortable, somehow, _safer._

He caught sight of the spiderweb taking across most of his doorway, but the murders he had just indirectly committed weighed more heavily in his mind. Martin mindlessly cleared them away as he continued pacing around his flat, thinking. His flat wasn’t expressly large – Martin found himself repeating the path between his bedroom, his living room, his kitchen, his living room, his bedroom, his living room, his kitchen, over and over. In his first few cycles, he would bump into the corners of the walls, but soon, Martin was pacing without impediment.

Several increasingly impractical solutions popped into his head. Ought he go to the police ( _And tell them what, Martin, you gargantuan idiot, that your magic brain powers made the truck crash)?_ Ought he to slide out handwritten letters under his door ( _With your luck, someone’ll find them and actually call the police)?_ Ought he just to sit and wait this out?

And what if it never did?

With no lights on, Martin couldn’t see the large analog clock that he kept in his living room. He could only tell the time by the diminishing light shining from inside the curtains. It was never pitch black, not really, not with the lights from the homes and businesses outside his window – but soon, Martin was confident, it was assuredly _night._

He ought to sleep. His dream loomed heavily in his mind. Annabelle was a product of his subconscious, _had_ to be, and whether these ‘powers’ were real or not – it was _just._ A. Dream.

In the dark, Martin laid in his bed. He stared up at the ceiling for some time – tossed and turned for some time – stared at his wall for some time – before eventually figuring that he was being ridiculous, that biology was a _thing_ and if he just forced his eyes shut and _waited_ he would _have_ to fall asleep, he was _tired,_ wasn’t he, then it would all be fine. Martin shut his eyes and waited.

Martin started to hear music in his flat.

The same music that had been going on and on in his nightmares. The harp-like tones were beautiful. Martin couldn’t recall ever seeing someone play the harp in his life, but he could almost imagine long, willowy fingertips plucking at the strings, one-by-one. A beautiful melody.

Did this mean that he was asleep? Martin didn’t _feel_ like he was asleep, but then again, he hadn’t _felt_ like he was asleep when he had spoken with Annabelle before.

Martin opened his eyes and was met with only blackness. His bed was still below him, soft and comfortable. Martin could move if he so choose. He rose his arm experimentally in his bed, holding it over his face, though he could not formally see it. Those were all good indications, however, that Martin was well enough awake.

Except that he could still hear the music.

“A-Annabelle?” Martin nevertheless asked in a tremulous voice. The question sat, empty, in the air. “Take this away. I don’t – I don’t _want_ it anymore.”

He received no response. “Annabelle. Please.”

Again, nothing. Except the creeping sensation of something _on_ him, like skittering little legs going up his outstretched arm, to his shoulder, to his neck, to his face, to his ear, _in…!_

Letting out a shriek, Martin bolted straight upright in bed. He pawed at his ear desperately until the sensation stopped. There was the urge to turn on his nightstand lamp, to see if it was just a figment of his imagination, but Martin found that he was too scared to turn it on. At least the music had stopped, leaving Martin in the eerie quiet of his own flat. The only noise he could hear were the sounds from outside, and even those were quieting in the early hours of London.

Martin reached for his phone. Dead. His charger was somewhere in his bag, and to extricate it _and_ plug it into the wall _and_ plug his phone into it would require him to turn on the lights, and Martin couldn’t bear that right now. He self-consciously scratched at the affected arm as he got up from the bed again.

In the living room, Martin saw that the lights from the emergency vehicles had gone. He didn’t peer outside properly to look at what was left of the accident. Dim incandescent light filtered in from just beyond the curtain; Martin could see something small and black scurry from the light in the window into the darkness of Martin’s living room wall. A spider, seeking refuge from the cold outdoors.

He didn’t think he liked spiders much anymore.

Raising his hand, Martin tried to rub at his eyes. He was stropped by the strange sensation of thin fibers hanging in front of his face. It was almost like hair, but his hair had never been that straight and long. He dusted it away distractedly before facing the bulk of his flat again.

_You’ve got too much energy. Too much anxiety,_ Martin thought to himself weakly, willing one foot in front of the other. He began to walk towards his bedroom again. _Just keep pacing, there you go, and you’ll tire yourself out enough that you’ll have to fall asleep. Then, maybe, you can talk to her. And maybe she can take this away from you._

Bedroom, living room, kitchen, living room, bedroom, living room, kitchen, living room, bedroom, living room, kitchen, living room, bedroom, living room, kitchen, _CHRIST I’M GOING TO DIE IN HERE,_ living room, bedroom, living room, kitchen, living room, bedroom, living room, kitchen, living room, bedroom, _SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME,_ living room, kitchen, living room, bedroom, living room, kitchen.

But, no matter what Martin thought, nobody came to the door. Even as dawn started to come up over the horizon, Martin felt no more exhausted than he had before. There was only the sharp, painful certainty of the mantra rolling through his mind:

_If I go outside, I’m going to hurt people._

_If I stay inside, I’m going to die._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of being forcefully trapped inside, spiders, being trapped in a web cocoon

A sunny day in London was something to celebrate, certainly. Given that Jon was experiencing a somewhat weighty foreboding about his imminent meeting with Basira, he had decided to take advantage of the little pleasures in life.

He had Melanie and Georgie’s flat to himself, as the two young women had gone out to investigate a haunted _tree._ Jon had had a hearty laugh at that and made them promise to tell him every paranormal detail when they returned. Then, he had set out to prepare lunch for his incoming guests.

It had been several days since he’d last been handed his rib, and they had been pleasant ones. Jon had visited four flats, one of which had particularly caught his eye. Small, cozy, tucked out of the way. Most wouldn’t like it, Jon figured, but all he wanted was somewhere he could see all four corners and space for a bookshelf. Some job postings had been bookmarked – he hadn’t formally applied yet. Jon didn’t think it would be easy, as working in a normal job seemed like some sort of pipe dream, but the thought still filled him with joy. _Recovery._ Recovery was a good thing, Jon told himself.

There was hope and a future, and Jon could see it now. He … _wished_ Martin was there with him for it, yes, but the knowledge that Martin was fulfilled and happy living his own life was enough. It had been years since Jon hadn’t experienced a yawning Hunger, deep inside him, of wanting to know _more,_ but now he found himself completely fine going without a statement. He was sleeping less. Perfectly normal trauma-induced nightmares, yes, fight-or-flight urges at the most minute occurrence, _yes,_ but he was waking up every day without threat of his own life. He didn’t even _miss_ being a monster much anymore.

Cucumber sandwiches. Cucumbers were Daisy’s favorite, Jon recalled. And … yes, he would make lemonade, too. And there was a bag of crisps laying about. He had actually _went_ with Melanie and Georgie during their last groceries run. Although he had felt a little like a haunting spectre following behind two well-adjusted normal people, Jon had enjoyed himself.

Maybe he would go to therapy. _Yes,_ Melanie still went to therapy, Georgie had said, so maybe he would, too. And just … reword some things so that he wasn’t immediately branded as delusional.

Jon hummed a happy little tune to himself as he continued to make dinner. He hadn’t heard from Martin. Hadn’t heard _of_ Martin, no familiar footsteps rushing down the hall to work. That was fine. Normal. Jon wouldn’t let himself obsess over that. Instead, he pulled up his e-mail to glance whether the landlord had gotten back to him about that flat, and inevitably found himself scrolling the news.

How strange. A man that had been standing stock-still in a tube station had just collapsed from dehydration. He’d apparently been the subject of a fairly intense Internet sensation for several days, though he had refused to address the hundreds of questions had been posed to him. Predominant theory was that it was some sort of strike for some cause or another.

Jon clucked under his tongue. _People are strange,_ he told himself wearily, _possessed or not._

A knock on the door made him jump, and he chided himself as he went to let them in. “Daisy, Basira,” he greeted warmly, stepping back from the doorway. “I’ve just made lunch.”

The two stood in the doorframe for a beat. Jon caught them sharing a glance. He _really_ ought to work on not greeting people like they were his long-lost friends. After all, Daisy and Basira had ‘known’ him for perhaps a week. He couldn’t force himself to be particularly bothered by it, though. “Oh, and thanks for the rib, Basira.” He patted his own side as a bit of a joke. There, he he could feel where the gap was – skin still pulled taut, but with a strange, unnatural give to it. “Been looking for it _everywhere.”_

“You seem chipper today.” Daisy observed as they stepped inside. Jon had brought out the small plate of cucumber sandwiches and placed it down. Daisy put one onto her own plate gratefully enough, but Basira wrinkled her nose at the example of fine English cuisine. “Any reason?”

“I’ve – well, I’ve – “ Hard to describe, really. _Recovery,_ Jon eventually decided. _I’ve been recovering._ Going out on walks to see the sky again, reading a little for pleasure, making plans for the future – it had done wonders for him. “Sky’s good?” _Stupid. You sound simpering._

They shared a look, and Jon felt himself start to cringe at it. He sat down on one of the chairs and started to nibble at lunch delicately. A sip of lemonade, and … right, he wasn’t going to be a chef anytime soon. He started to cough wildly and stood up, uttering, “Right, let me just get some water, then?” To which he received a grateful nod from Daisy.

When he returned, there was a recorder on the table. “You don’t mind if I record this, do you?” Basira asked. “Not going to publish it anywhere. Obviously. I just prefer to have it played out so I can listen to it later.”

There were _spiders_ crawling up Jon’s _spine._

Or felt like it, anyway. Looking at the recorder laying on the table, plain as day, completely unobtrusive, Jon felt his muscles start to tense. _Stupid,_ he told himself, _just a hunk of technology._ And yet.

Jon shook his head and sat down at the table. “Fine,” he remarked in a voice somewhat raspier than it had been just a minute ago, “That’s fine. Little old-fashioned, but it’ll do. Go ahead.”

They both pulled out notebooks, opening them. Basira took out a pen, but Daisy’s eyes remained on him. Jon tried not to stare at the scarring there. He never had found out what happened to Julia and Trevor, in the midst of things, whether they were still alive or not. With Daisy’s memories corrupted as they were, Jon supposed he would never find out.

“Do you recall what you were doing when you first became aware of the fire? What you did immediately after?”

Jon racked his memory. Honestly, he couldn’t – “The first thing I remember is seeing Martin Blackwood, and even that’s hazy,” he confessed. “I didn’t even remember the fire happened until Martin took me back there the next day.”

Pens scratched against the paper simultaneously. Jon could see the tape rolling in the recorder between them. He started to pick at the cucumber sandwich, thoroughly smearing his fingers. Self-consciously, he wiped them off on the table cloth.

“Is there anyone you know of, besides yourself, still connected with the Magnus Institute? Alive?”

“No. The previous head died some six months ago, give or take. And the … I mean.” Jon blinked a few times to himself. Thinking too much of the employees of the place made him remember the others, the ones that he could no longer see – of Tim, of Sasha, who he _missed,_ god help him. “No. Nobody I know of. Don’t know what happened to the other employees.”

“Nobody who had a serious grudge against the place?” It was Daisy, now, tapping the end of her pen against the table. She mirrored Jon’s movements, picking apart the bread of the sandwich carefully. “Nobody who would _want_ to burn it down?”

Jon started to laugh uproariously. The _thought._ The utter _thought._

“I mean – _yeah!”_ He managed to get out through his chuckles, eventually half-suffocating himself with his hand against his mouth. “ _Plenty!_ Dozens? Hundreds? But nobody that comes to _mind,_ no. We hadn’t taken statements for some time, but … “

Trailing off, Jon recalled the sensation again. The shuffling, slow movements throughout the massive great library corridors – how books suddenly seemed to _appear_ without anyone placing them there, how they contained all the information that anyone would ever want, how it could be personal, intimate information, even …

The Archivist had known All.

But nothing could be done with it. He had been a bound monster, one that held considerable skill but no way in which to express it. Scary, maybe, but like most fears – ultimately fantastical and harmless.

“I don’t know,” Jon admitted quietly. “I’m … I’m not vain enough to think they did it to release me, whoever they were, but I _am_ grateful for what they did.”

More writing, before Basira turned to her bag. Jon sipped at his water and pushed his hair behind his ear. How beautiful it was, not to be frightened by lingering strands of his own _hair._ Basira withdrew something, small enough to securely hold it in her first.

A lighter with a spiderweb pattern, one that Jon recalled all too well. He picked it up and examined it, flipping the lid open and shut.

“Recognize it?”

“Yes. Yeah, of course. You found this in my desk, along with my – “ Jon patted at his skin again, to which Daisy nodded. “Right. I’m not surprised it survived. This was given to me, years and years ago – presumably,” Jon added, tapping at the design, “An agent of the Web.”

“Why?”

“I never found out. I presumed … I don’t know what I presumed,” Jon added, “To scare me? Maybe.”

The snort that Basira made caused Jon to look down. The reasoning sounded foolish, even to his own ears, but it was the best that he could come up with. He flicked the lid shut and stored it in his pocket. Even if it was a reminder of what had happened before, Jon had known where it was for _years._ To have it back in his grasp felt _right,_ somehow.

“Something, I guess. You know of any Entities that could cause seventeen different electrical fires throughout the building at once?”

Jon considered it. “I – _any_ of them, given enough time and planning and will? There isn’t any fear called _The Electrical Fire,_ if that’s what you’re looking for, no.”

When they fell silent, comparing notes, Jon took a few cautious bites of his sandwich. He knew he should’ve been more keen on knowing who set the fire, but honestly, he wasn’t interested in Knowing any more. They had done him a favour. Jon would shake their hand.

And … perhaps random luck had helped him, just this once.

“Day, could you play back the recording?” Basira asked her partner, gesturing towards the device. “Make sure we’re not getting any interference from outside.”

Daisy stopped the recording. Jon heard the click of the tape stopping, and he found himself taking a deep breath. He quite _liked_ recorders not acting of their own free will, Jon decided, and it’d been an awful long time since he’d last seen one do that.

When Daisy played back the recording, though, the sound that eked out was _not_ the inside of this flat. Wasn’t the interview he’d just given.

There was a low, steady dripping. Every drop seemed to reverberate through the entire space, causing an echo. Someone was walking. Slow, steady steps. And there was the sound of _rats,_ too, the sound of chittering and chattering and the occasional pained squeak of a rat that had either gotten caught in a trap or had the losing end of a fight.

The walking stopped, and the softest sound of effort as the person crouched to the ground. “ _Go on, go on,”_ Annabelle’s voice rasped. A rat was squeaking intently up at her, as if trying to make human sounds. “ _Find the wires._ I’ve let them up for you, you see?” The rat squeaked. It _did_ see. “ _Find the wires and chew, chew, chew.”_

The sound of dozens of rats moving unison was one that Jon had ever heard before, but not one that he would soon forget. Hundreds of tiny paws tapped against the woods, all squirming towards their destination. He heard Annabelle start to chuckle to herself, the sound akin to a creaking door. “You _see_ me, Jon.”

And then, the tape _screeched,_ badly enough and loudly enough that Jon reached for his ears. He groaned and leaned on the table as Daisy darted forward. She immediately popped open the recorder and took out the tape inside. It was sizzling softly, useless, and Jon stared at it with wide eyes.

Of course it would never be random luck. Of course Jon would never be lucky in his entire life. And he would most certainly not be shaking Annabelle’s hand – impossible to know why she had done it, but Jon knew that (a) it was not for his own good and (b) it was not over yet, and he wasn’t safe, and he was an _idiot_ for thinking that everything was over and done with.

The haven that he had created for himself in his mind shattered to pieces with the realization. Of course it wasn’t over. It would never _be_ over, so long as the Entities existed and _hated_ him. Suddenly feeling like his torso was much heavier, Jon leaned against the table and stared listlessly ahead. Making lunch and finding flats and laughing – _useless prattle._

“Jon,” Basira asked with a firm solemnity. “Who was that?”

Not moving his body, Jon’s eyes simply flicked from the recorder up to Basira. Daisy seemed just as intent, though he saw a haunting hunger in her eyes. She was ready to hunt.

His mouth popped open, but no answer came from his lips.

-

Martin Blackwood hadn’t slept for three days. Alternatively – he had been sleeping for three days.

It was hard to tell, anymore. After he had paced long enough in his flat, Martin had tried to lay back down again and get some sleep. He had forced his eyes shut and laid there for some time. Hours. Perhaps days, even. With no window in his bedroom and no light to properly tell the time, Martin had no idea. He just knew that the music had started up again, and he had tried to ask for Annabelle.

Annabelle hadn’t answered him, and Martin had cried in despair.

The longer he laid on the bed, the more Martin felt like he couldn’t get up. Not because he was falling asleep, but because his upper torso felt so much _heavier_ than normal. Like he was gradually getting tied down, tighter and tighter. The skittering sensation on his skin, like spiders were crawling up him and nesting in his brain, was ever-present. Martin couldn’t help but imagine spiders producing spiderwebs all over him, surrounding him, covering him, suffocating him, killing him.

Spiders drained their food, didn’t they? Sucked them out from the inside until they were nothing more than an empty husk. Martin didn’t let himself picture it.

Martin didn’t let himself lay down any more, either.

He got up and the music hadn’t stopped. No, the music instead seemed to follow him, the haunting harp ringing inside of his ears. Martin didn’t know if that meant she was listening or not. He was inclined to think the latter – that nobody was listening to him, that nobody knew what kind of danger he was in.

Martin had taken to brushing at his arms, his neck, his ears. Often, he could’ve sworn he heard the _click_ of something small and solid being swept off his skin, but he couldn’t see where the projectile had landed. Sometimes, he would only feel a long, thin strand of a fiber, but he never really felt like he swept that off. The music continued, loud enough so that Martin could no longer hear the noises going on outside. The light coming in from the curtains seemed … dimmer, somehow, and Martin could not reliably tell whether it was twilight or dawn.

Instead, he continued to pace. It was productive, and productivity was something vital in an apartment that always seemed pitch black. Panic never stopped festering, a little black ball deep in his stomach – the ceaseless, staticky sensation that he had royally, utterly cocked things up.

“If I go outside, I’m going to hurt people.

If I stay inside, I’m going to die.”

Martin started to speak it out loud, if only to prove to himself that he could still _speak._ That he was still a person, because he hadn’t seen any part of himself in near-on days. Could still feel himself, of course, felt himself brush the spiders away or occasionally hit the end of the corner, but it was different to actually hear himself. A voice was a sign of identity, and Martin clung to it, and spoke until his voice was raspy and dry.

The mantra became less of a panicked spiral and more of an inevitable certainty. Martin started to become less frightened of the prospect of going outside – and, after some hours, it indeed seemed to be the better solution. The more humane one.

What was the problem with _hurting_ people, actually, when the alternative was his own life? Wasn’t his life worth putting a couple of people at risk? It was his own _death_ as an alternative, and Martin most certainly didn’t want die. Still, walking was becoming harder – thinking was becoming even worse. He needed to go _out._ He needed to get _help._

“If I go outside, I’m going to hurt people.

If I stay inside, I’m going to die.”

Yes, yes, that was _right._ Martin broke from his constant pacing routine, trying to figure out where the front door of the flat was. It was so dark, and he had been pacing for so long, that he couldn’t properly tell where it had gotten to. His fingers drifted across the wall of his living room. That was strange. He hadn’t remembered them being quite so … sticky.

Not sticky _wet._ Sticky long fibers seemed plastered to his wall and got stuck to his hands. Martin instinctively wiped them on his jumper, but found the long sticky fibers there, too. He frowned. Bother.

Nevertheless, hands sticky or not, Martin found the door. _Jon,_ his mind pulsed to him weakly, _Jon would know what to do about this._ And he found that he even believed it, because he didn’t know what else to _do_ about this situation. Martin was so far beyond pretending that this was normal. He knew it wasn’t. He just didn’t know what to do about it, beyond _Jon._

The idea that Jon had cursed him somehow had crossed his mind, once or twice, but he had quickly dismissed it. Jon was a lot of things, but he had not been a monster.

The door. Martin’s fingers dragged against the painted surface, occasionally catching resistance. Actually, he couldn’t _quite_ feel the door – he dug his fingers in and was only met with sticky webbing. _Weird,_ he thought dimly, as he reached for the knob.

And he couldn’t find it.

Or, rather, he found something that _might’ve_ been the doorknob – but it was covered with so much webbing that it was rendered completely inoperable. Just a lump of spiderweb. He tried to pry it apart with his fingers, but they were soon covered in so much of the gossamer that Martin couldn’t hope to grasp it.

He couldn’t get out.

Martin turned around, facing the window. A few stories above the ground, the fall would surely kill him – but if he could _wave,_ get _help,_ somehow, then maybe – just maybe – if he could only think with this goddamn music singing in his head – he was just so tired – it sounded just like a lullaby.

Stumbling towards the window, Martin raised his spider-web covered hand and yanked the curtains back.

There was no light there. Only cobwebs, blotting out the outside world so thoroughly that it seemed to be one solid mass. If spiders roamed through and between the strands, then Martin did not see them – he only _felt_ them, on his arms, on his torso, on his legs, and Martin was so scared that he couldn’t move to brush them off.

He was trapped here, stuck as firmly as a fly facing down a spider, and there was nothing that could be done about it. His pulse beat so loudly that Martin could feel it in his neck, and he wondered if the spiders swarming him could hear it, too.

Turning away from the window, Martin looked back at his nightmare. He couldn’t imagine what further horror awaited him in the darkness, what his home now looked like, and he found that he didn’t want to. _You’re just a fool,_ Martin told himself miserably, _Thinking you were special, that the spiderwoman had somehow chosen you for some power. Now, look at you. She’s just playing with you._

“If I go outside, I’m going to hurt people.

If I stay inside, I’m going to die.”

The words were uttered in a weak, dehydrated wisp of a voice. The first statement was now irrelevant – there was no _going outside._ Which made the second statement even more present. Martin was going to die, alone, miserable, and scared.

He ended up returning to his bedroom, where the music seemed loudest. At least it blocked out the _skitter skitter skitter_ of thousands of tiny legs all around him, more at home here than Martin was. Running his hand over his bed, Martin wasn’t surprised to find that it was covered with cobwebs, too.

Well. Better to die comfortable, he supposed. He climbed onto the bed and settled onto his back, staring at the ceiling silently. _At least you’re not going to hurt anyone._ The thought brought some comfort, at least, to him. He needed it. Martin tried to move his arms to fold them across his stomach and found that they were stuck on the bed. No matter how hard he tugged, there was nothing to be done about it. Martin’s hair was unnaturally stiff and didn’t flop back onto the pillow like it usually did.

Thousands of tiny legs marched up and down his arms. Martin could feel it, but he could not move. He opened his mouth to scream, yell, and found that he could no longer move his face. No movements in his legs or torso, either.

Grateful that there was one part of him still under his control, Martin closed his eyes. A cut-off scream started in his throat and had no open mouth to escape from, so it died as a groan.

\--

“What’re you giggling for?” Georgie teased her girlfriend. She was mostly leaning on her in the lift, scrolling through her email. Her hair flopped over onto Melanie’s shoulder; Melanie’s arm had comfortably looped around Georgie’s waist. “Were giggling the entire ride home, too.”

Melanie shook her head. “I’m still not over it, sorry. _Raccoons,”_ she chortled. The lift slid to a stop and they stepped out. Georgie reached for Melanie’s hand and swung it. “That man near shat himself when he heard skittering coming from his haunted tree. And it’s raccoons! How the hell has he not checked for _raccoons_ before?”

“Probably worried he’d get possessed by his _spooky tree.”_

They snorted against one another as they walked down to their flat. Melanie was doing … well. Before she started joining Georgie on her ghost expeditions, she had been concerned that doing so would feel a bit like a charity case. The being-blind business wasn’t _new,_ but it had happened within the last year, and there was still enough to sort out. As it happened, though, Melanie had surpassed Georgie at listening for EVP. It wasn’t like Melanie’s hearing had grown all-powerful within the space of the year, but she was surprised by how much visual distraction she could filter out by simply … not.

Most of ghost-hunting was sitting still, listening, and feeling cold. _And_ occasionally cuddling up next to Georgie, but Melanie didn’t think that was quite in the job description.

She wondered if their unexpected houseguest had started making dinner. He’d done so since the night he moved in, and Melanie had to admit it had been pretty nice having someone take care of the chores around the flat. It would be nice to get some privacy – Jon left, but never for very long and often took long naps after.

Still, Melanie found – with a shock – that she liked him. Georgie did, too. The Martin thing was a shame, yeah, but in the end, Melanie figured it was Martin’s loss. Not like they’d been friends, anyway.

“Hang on, there’s something outside Martin’s door,” Georgie muttered. Melanie felt her hand get dropped as Georgie bent down. “Nnh? Oh, it’s that flyer we got a few days ago. Martin’s not taken it down?” Melanie recalled it. It was a coupon for some new takeaway place opening a few streets over. She and Jon had both examined it, found that it was for Icelandic cuisine, and had resolutely turned up their noses.

As Georgie examined the flyer, Melanie found that she heard something. It was _faint,_ but it sounded almost like … music? No, yes, definitely music. She could hear a harp. Stepping forward, Melanie instinctively pressed her ear against Martin’s door. The music was louder, there. Classical?

“You hear something?”

“Yeah, he’s playing music. I didn’t think he was the classical type. Bit, you know,” Melanie waved her hands about. “Seemed over his head? In a nice way?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Georgie thumbed the flyer and crouched down to push it below the crack in his door. “Honestly, I hope Martin turns out to be a gigantic fan of Icelandic food. I could use someone to go with.” Melanie rolled her eyes behind her glasses. The noise that the flyer made was … _strange,_ though, like it was being caught on adhesive. “That’s weird. I think there’s something on the other side.” Georgie brushed her fingers over the edge of the flyer, before making a gross noise. “ _Euch._ It’s like spiderweb. Or silly string.”

“Has he got stuff pushed up against his door?”

“Maybe he’s cleaning,” Georgie offered thoughtfully. The flyer was folded in half and wedged underneath the door as best as she could. “Spring’s around the corner.”

“Might explain the music? You listen to some _pretty_ strange stuff when you clean.”

“Ska is not weird!”

Together, they joined hands once again and returned over to their flat. Melanie didn’t think anything else of the strange music at Martin’s door – would she? They had a burgeoning friendship that had quickly been snipped when Martin had ordered them all out of his flat. Besides, there were more important things to worry about, namely Georgie’s ex getting back on his feet. He was going to talk with the detectives today, and Melanie noted that Georgie’s shoulders had tensed when she fiddled with the keys to the door. Nervous, too, then. But Jon had been insistent that he would be fine, and Melanie hadn’t voiced her thoughts of whether Jon was thinking of the Basira he _had_ known or the Basira he _knew._

When the door opened, Melanie only heard the faint exertion of movement, like someone pushing themselves up from the ground. “Oh, what the _hell_ are you all _doing?”_ Georgie muttered beside her, and Melanie gave her girlfriend’s hand a tug. _Hi. Blind bombshell here._

“They’re climbing on the kitchen table, pinning things up on the wall there, connecting them with – string, _beautiful,_ we’re on _Sherlock_ now, are we?”

“Georgie! Melanie! Hi!” Jon muttered. There was the click of his cane against the wood as he approached them. “Right, I feel like this might warrant some – “

“The Web burned down the Institute.” That must’ve been Daisy in the corner. Melanie heard the soft noise of pushpins being placed into the wall. She didn’t mind the property damage much – they’d filmed a few video accompaniments to _What the Ghost_ in the living room and God knew they’d already lost their deposit on the walls for it – but she attributed that to Basira.

Georgie sighed and stared down at the ground. Melanie stepped forward first – “Hang on, you’ve set up a murder board in _our_ bloody flat, Jon!?”

“I – “

“I mean, technically, it was my idea,” Basira remarked. “And I think it’s _also,_ technically, an arson board.”

“A quarter of it’s just pictures of _spiders.”_

“It’s a work-in-progress.”

There, Melanie heard Jon step forward, ostensibly to negotiate. “I’m trying to list what I knew of the Web’s movements before I – before we all killed Elias,” he explained softly. “I _know,_ I don’t want to be bringing this back into your lives, but it might be important. I was idiotic to think that the place burning down might be some stroke of good fortune. The Web is _planning_ something, and burning down the Institute was only the first step.”

Melanie didn’t like the idea of this. Didn’t like the idea of someone threatening her, and her girlfriend, and her friends over some bullshit that she didn’t even _remember._ And, she continued, the same went for Jon. Jon was _out_ of that bullshit. What right did some spooky-scary-spider-god have to start harassing him again?

She wasn’t sure when she found that she actually _liked_ Jon, but the man had been tossed out on his arse one too many times already. Melanie’s lips twisted into a frown.

“Yeah, I can’t make this out. Whose handwriting is this, even? Yours?” Georgie was asking, closer to the murder board. Basira let out a self-conscious noise of protest. “A – Anathema? Andorian?”

“ _Annabelle,”_ Daisy remarked. “Annabelle Chase.”

“It’s the name of the only Web agent I know of. She’s, ah, contacted me before. We’ve never formally met,” Jon started to explain quickly, “But she knows of me. I don’t know what she would want with me, or why I haven’t – I mean, there’s not even been that many spiders around. None more than usual.”

Melanie wasn’t frightened of spiders at all. They made a satisfying squish underneath her boot, actually. “So, what’s step two?” She asked, turning towards where Jon’s voice had been. Jon reached out to lightly touch her elbow, a silent nod that he was actually a few inches clockwise. “They burn down the Archives. And then – _nothing?”_

“I …” Jon winced. “Nobody’s been having any strange dreams? Not hearing any strange music, not noticing any more spiders than usual?”

Georgie and Melanie realized it simultaneously, leaving Melanie felt like she was being enormously slow on the uptake. _Fuck._ Was every offbeat or slightly unusual event in their lives going to be indicative of some higher evil plan, now? Did Melanie have to start hyperanalyzing every stray incident for signs that they were going to be chased down and God-knew-what?

“What?” Jon asked. From the tone of his voice changing, he seemed to be addressing both her and Georgie very quickly. “What what what? What is it?”

But Georgie was already moving. She was grasping at her cricket bat, which made Melanie check her pockets for her knife. _Good._ “Basira,” Georgie asked, rummaging through their winter glove box, “Have you got your gun on you?”

“Day’s got it.” Daisy let out a grunt. Melanie heard a safety click.

“Jon, I – grab something to defend yourself with.”

Melanie heard the slide of scissors across their wooden kitchen table as Jon complied. “ _Georgie,”_ he nevertheless insisted, “Tell me what’s going on.”

There was silence coming from Georgie’s end. Melanie ended up answering for her. Uncertainty dogged her – perhaps they _were_ overreacting, but if the Web was in any way related to the Eye – if what was happening to Martin was in any way related to what happened to Jon – then maybe she would be using that knife after all.

The bits of evidence started to come together, murder board or not. “Don’t think Martin’s left his flat in a few days,” Melanie uttered shortly. “We heard music outside his door – might be some sort of webbing underneath it, too.”

“ _Fuck.”_ Jon hit the ‘k’ hard, and Melanie heard Georgie wrestle the front door open. All five of them surged out into the hallway. Melanie imagined they looked quite a sight, clutching their improvised weapons (or, in the case of Daisy, highly _un_ improvised), but she heard no gasp of surprise, shock, or fear from the hall.

Daisy pushed forward to the front as they loomed on Martin’s door. The woman got down onto her knees in front of the lock again – the lock seemed to open easily enough, but as Daisy gave it a shove, it gave no leeway. In fact, it made an uncomfortably wet _squish_ noise, as if someone had stuck wet balls of paper on the other side. “Babe?” She grunted, and Basira went to lean against the door with her girlfriend. “On three. One, _two, thr—“_

The door slammed open. It stayed there as the doorknob got caught in the hole that had been made just a few days prior, in the same exact location under bizarrely different circumstances. Daisy caught Basira or Basira caught Daisy, Melanie couldn’t tell which, as they stumbled forward a few steps in. Their footsteps seemed to catch on the ground with more uncomfortable _squishing._

Georgie followed soon after, and then Jon. Melanie was behind them all. The music was quieter in the flat, but nevertheless there – what was much more uncomfortable was the _movement_ that she heard. It gave the incorrect, but haunting, assumption that the walls themselves were breathing and shifting.

The entire party, sans Melanie, gasped out loud. Melanie quietly heard Basira say, “Holy _shit.”_

“It’s … it’s everywhere,” Jon wheezed. And, if the sensation under her shoes was any indication, Jon was _right._ “M-Martin?” He had tried to raise his voice a little, but in doing so, made it crack.

No response, from anywhere in the apartment. Melanie couldn’t hear the music anymore, but she could hear the sound of _shifting._ She had to remind herself that there were, at some point, solid walls and a floor in this place. That she wouldn’t just keep on sinking, straight through to the bottom, until she was entirely encased with thick webbing and muck.

Jon took off at a run for somewhere in the flat. “ _Jon!”_ Came Basira, who quickly went off after him. Melanie heard Jon call out Martin’s name again, frantic, _desperate,_ and Melanie couldn’t help but think that since they hadn’t found Martin crying and screaming for help … they wound find him dead.

“Three o’clock, straight hallway. C’mon,” Georgie urged. They were the last two to enter the hallway, and thus the last two to enter Martin’s bedroom.

There, Melanie heard the godawful sound of something _ripping._ Someone – Jon – she was pretty certain – was panting, and clearly kneeling on the bed. “Melanie!” The barked shout was bordering on heartbroken despair. “God, please, your … do you still have your knife?”

Something about his tone made Melanie immediately rummage in her pockets and start ripping through _whatever_ was on the bed again. Daisy seemed to be making progress with just her hands, from the sound of it, and Basira had picked up the discarded scissors to continue again. Georgie surged forward to assist _whatever_ it was.

There was the urge to ask what was going on, again, but Melanie thought it might be better to not know. For the time being. She could help pull apart whatever they were ripping, however. She stepped forward and extended out her hand. It brushed along Daisy’s chapped fingers, and Jon’s scarred ones, and Georgie’s soft ones, and also … _sticky._

In retrospect, Melanie supposed she knew what she was touching the second she walked into Martin’s bedroom. Her mind didn’t let her make the connection consciously, because if she did – _no._ No, she just had to focus on her actions, and that was all. Melanie started to pull apart at the webbing. It was _thick,_ some strands nearly viscuous and some having the texture of rope. She knew she was pulling at spiders, too, occasionally she’d feel a disgusting _crack_ and the sensation of cold liquid against her hands. All the while, Melanie heard Jon tear at the strands, nearly in tears with the desperation of it all.

They couldn’t have been tearing apart at the web cocoon for more than a minute, but it felt ages. She was glad that she could feel Georgie’s hip brushing against her own. In the heat of the moment, nobody spoke, but just knowing that Georgie – fearless Georgie – was _there_ helped her composure enormously.

Melanie’s hand shoved through a few additional layers of webbing, and came into contact with something soft. And … fabric. Yes, that was _fabric,_ in a texture that was altogether different from spiderweb silk. It felt like cotton.

“Oh my god, Martin,” Jon half-sobbed out. They removed an entire half of the cocoon. It fell on the floor, half catching on Georgie and Melanie’s legs. “Martin, what did she _do_ to you?”

Beside her, quietly enough that even Jon couldn’t hear, Georgie swore under her breath. Melanie was pleased that she didn’t have to see the face of the man who had been slowly drained from the inside out for … who even knew? _Days?_ Melanie’s fingers brushed along his skin – his hands were kept firmly at his sides, glued there by the web. They _felt_ like they were dry, even on the inside.

Melanie’s grandfather had died when she was rather young. Old enough to have a conceptual understanding that Yes People Died, young enough not to understand that No People Didn’t Come Back. It had struck her when she had stared at her relative in the casket, looking a little waxy and artificial. When Melanie had curiously raised her hand to stroke the dead man’s hands, folded so carefully over his waist, she had been surprised to feel that he _felt_ waxy and artificial, too!

The sensation here, as she brushed her hands along Martin’s, was identical.

Someone was intent on yanking apart the rest of the cocoon. The splitting sound was uncomfortably wet, punctuated with the sound of Jon sobbing. Finally, Daisy cut through the noise: “He’s still breathing.”

A dropped pin would’ve sounded like an avalanche.

To Melanie, they all reacted with considerable coordination. Georgie leaned over to grasp Martin’s feet from where they still remained trapped in the cocoon. Others, Melanie wasn’t close enough to tell which, held Martin’s torso and head to lift him out of the cocoon. And Melanie herself stepped away to reach for her mobile.

“ _Hi,”_ she spoke into the phone after dialing 999, immediately following it up with the address of Martin’s flat. “There’s been …” And, _Christ,_ how was she going to explain this? What was this, even? An attack? An _accident?_ “My friend’s hurt. Please, you have to come as soon as you can.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Hospitals, brief mention of violence, kidnapping, spiders

They’d been in the hospital for nine hours, placing the time at 10:43 PM. Jon had been there for the full nine. Melanie, Georgie, Daisy, and Basira, bless them, had stayed for about five. It was a small possibility that Jon would’ve entirely lost his mind without them there. Not like they’d had a sleepover and allowed Jon to talk about his feelings with separators between his toes, but they had sat near him and quietly chatted and voiced their worries among themselves. Jon had, just as quietly, discussed what he knew about the Web and his theories.

Not that his theories meant fuck-all at the moment. Why _now,_ Jon asked himself stubbornly. This was clearly step two of the Web’s plan, but he couldn’t see any connection between the Web burning down the Institute and the Web trying to kill Martin. Other than the common link: him.

_Just kill me, then,_ Jon begged some unseen force. _Stop hurting people that I like and just kill me._

Regardless, they had all sat in a small cluster in the corner of the waiting room, a group of exhausted, sticky travelers. Jon remembered Georgie going at some night to retrieve coffee for the lot of them. He even remembered sipping his own. But for the most part, Jon just felt a numb, yawning sort of terror.

_It wasn’t over it wasn’t over it wasn’t over it wasn’t over never over never over never over never never never never_

While Jon had been reasonably certain that he hadn’t been making noise, he supposed that he might have been trembling a little. Melanie, from where she was sitting on the ground, had leaned onto her temple was resting on the side of Jon’s knee. Georgie rubbed up and down his back warmly. Basira seemed intent on pestering the aide every twenty minutes for an update about Martin’s examination and Daisy was absorbed in her laptop. Taking notes, Jon figured.

The need for dinner eventually won out. There was an additional plan to clean up Martin’s apartment as best as they could for when the man inevitably returned home, which was such an optimistic outlook that Jon almost scoffed at its naivete. He _didn’t,_ but he wanted to. A ride was offered to him, by Georgie and then, quieter, Basira, but Jon refused both. Someone, he vowed, ought to stay with Martin.

Should’ve been staying with Martin all along. How stupid was he, to think that giving Martin space was important? He’d practically signed the man’s death warrant himself. It wasn’t going to happen again.

Eventually, Jon was called up by the aide and politely informed that Martin Blackwood was resting in a hospital room, but it would be best if a family member was sat down and debriefed by a doctor, first. The phrase _family member_ was pointed.

_Sorry,_ Jon thought numbly, _Martin is fresh out at the family shop._ He instead spun some story about being Martin Blackwood’s fiancé, they’d been engaged for three years, but still planning the wedding, money, you understand, it’s just all such a _hassle …_

It was funny to think that telling such a sentimental lie would have immensely bothered and/or disquieted him a few years ago. And now, Jon found himself spinning stories without a second thought about It. He supposed the fact that he’d been sitting six hours, looking shell-shocked, helped his case enormously. Soon, Jon was sitting in front of a doctor as the doctor threw a series of nominalized words at him.

_Dehydration._

_Malnutrition._

_Hypothermia._

_Rib fracture._

_Subconjunctival hemorrhage._

Every word _hurt._ Jon wanted to tune them out, but nevertheless found that he could only listen and _know_ as the doctor kept speaking with him. The doctor himself seemed at odds, but if he wanted to ask what happened – _how_ on Earth a man could be brought into A&E still partially wrapped in cobweb, still have cobweb covering his eyes and nose and mouth and _oh,_ Martin – he didn’t. Jon supposed that he didn’t look like the man most equipped to answer questions right at that moment.

Regardless of _what happened,_ the doctor added with a pointed look towards him, if Jon wanted to wait next to him, he could.

And Jon did.

That was how he spent the remaining few hours. As soon as he’d gotten in, saw Martin hooked up to various tubes and machines, Jon had planted himself right in the chair by his bedside and refused to move. Martin – old Martin, at least – would hate any idea that he had to be protected, but _damn it,_ Jon was going to keep him safe.

Even if Martin wasn’t moving, even if he was hooked up to machines, even if his hands were folded on his stomach like every funeral Jon had ever been to – Martin looked so much more alive than he had in his flat. There was _color_ in his cheeks, in his arms, his hands. The sight of Martin’s freckles, lightly dusted on his forearms and then tightly packed on his shoulders, nearly made Jon cry. Although they’d gotten rid of most of the cobwebs before the ambulance had arrived, they’d been at a loss to do anything about the spiderweb so intricately interwoven in his hair. The nurses and doctors seemed to manage it just fine, because Martin’s hair was soaked wet – but clean.

When he wasn’t covered by the thick gray fibers, Jon could see his injuries much more clearly. Light scratches littered his arms, thin red lines that would heal within a few days. Bruises, too. There was the bruise that Basira gave him during their showdown in Martin’s flat, yes, but also thick bruises around his throat and chest. Some had started to tinge a faint yellow color. Others were bright and loud and purple and _hateful._

From Martin’s injuries, and witnessing the bruises around the throat himself, Jon presumed that he’d been coughing so hard at some point he’d both cracked a rib _and_ blew out a blood vessel in his eye. As to what was blocking his airway – Jon wasn’t sure if the mental picture of the webbing wrapping tightly around his throat _or_ the picture of the webbing plugging his trachea internally was worse.

Most noticeably, Martin was covered in bites.

The bites were faint, and Jon was almost positive that they would fade quickly. But when Jon noticed one, he began to notice two, five, ten, fifteen, _forty, a hundred._ Every inch of exposed skin seemed to have at least a few sharp-looking bug bites on him in the form of little angry red dots. They extended far up into his hairline. His neck. Jon witnessed one under his fingernail. So much more violent than the friendly light brown freckles he’d been born with.

That was about when Jon leaned over to grab Martin’s hand. He wrapped his fingers around the warm, clean, fresh skin, if only to take Martin’s hand off his stomach. Jon interlaced their fingers together. Both of their hands were very dry. While he would have to admit that it probably didn’t serve any purpose practically – Jon would rather face death again than drop Martin’s hand. He soon tugged it close, folding their clasped hands against Jon’s chest.

It would be awkward to explain when Martin inevitably woke up, Jon supposed, or – or maybe it wouldn’t be. Maybe it would simply feel natural, even if Martin didn’t recall their brief, terrifying romantic entanglement in Scotland.

Jon thought of Scotland.

Scotland didn’t grant him the peace that it once did. Jon could only think of the terror. Jon could only think of staying awake in Martin’s arms ( _because, at one point, it had gone from ‘don’t need sleep but it’s an option’ to ‘don’t need sleep, can’t sleep’),_ dead-set convinced that he was going to kill him one day. Sometimes he’d push himself to go without a statement, leaving him cranky, quiet, and bordering on dangerous. Sometimes Martin would go a day without talking and Jon would be so overbearingly distressed about it that they’d end up having a row.

There had been naps together and holding hands and making out on the sofa and the odd flirtatious conversation, _yes,_ but overwhelmingly … Jon had been scared. And guilty, for a crime he hadn’t even done yet.

Instead, Jon found himself thinking of that night in Martin’s flat. He thought of sitting on his sofa and eating Italian takeaway in the dim light of Martin’s front room. He thought of Martin fondly complimenting his new haircut, and then teasing him in the next breath. He thought of Martin’s hand gently encircling his wrist, but not guiding him anywhere.

In that moment, Jon hadn’t worried about anything coming to attack them. Jon hadn’t worried about his or Martin’s humanity. He had just felt his heart flutter in his chest and how _very_ close Martin was. It was a sweet taste of something that Jon had nearly forgotten, without the guillotine of fear threatening his neck.

Jon thought of that instead of Scotland.

The clock struck 10 PM. Jon’s new phone had died, and he lacked a charger. Just before it did, though, Jon had sent a few messages off to the women in his life about how he was going to stay there overnight and not to worry. The screen went black and Jon tucked his knees up on the chair, still holding Martin’s hand. Jon leaned his head and let his cheek rest against the side of Martin’s bed.

Martin showed no signs of stirring, but there was a soft, steady heartbeat monitor. No spiders, either. Jon hadn’t gotten on his hands and knees to search yet, but even if there was an errant one in the corner, it wasn’t enough to be a serious threat to Martin. Besides, he had to tone down his behavior – it wouldn’t do to get himself thrown out for being a little too weird. A nurse came in to check on Martin at a quarter to eleven. Jon’s eyes had been half-closed, but he hadn’t let go of Martin’s hand. Initially.

Eventually, the nurse had given him a small smile and asked if Jon could relinquish the hand, because she had a suspicion that the IV was starting to come loose in the back of Martin’s. “Well, if you _must,”_ Jon had sleepily stated, uncurling his fingers from around Martin’s. It was placed lovingly back on the bed.

“Lovebirds, aren’t you?” The nurse asked kindly as she re-adjusted it. Jon didn’t let himself guiltily wonder if he had accidentally jostled it loose from holding it, but he did find himself watching the back of Martin’s hand anyway. “That’s sweet. You never see that anymore, really.”

_Oh._ Jon didn’t think – well, he supposed – _er._ Lovebirds. The thought nearly made him scoff. Even if Jon was intrinsically able to _be_ such a thing, they hadn’t really had the chance.

As soon as the nurse stepped away from her ministrations on Martin’s hand, Jon interweaved their fingers again and pulled his hand against his chest. “Together no matter the weather,” he remarked with a sort of faux cheerfulness. His eyes wandered over Martin’s unconscious body. At least he seemed relaxed … and at least he was getting some sleep. Martin’s face was no longer clean shaven; Jon found himself quietly fond of the scratchy, patchy beard on his face. Many times he had woken up in Scotland to the sun striking it, and probably feeling the closest thing to _happy_ that he’d experienced in years. _Should’ve told him that it made him look handsome,_ Jon thought to himself, and then: _Still time, I suppose._

“He has been through it. Needs all the support he can get, I imagine.” As to what _it_ was, Jon didn’t have time to think of an adequate lie. Thankfully, though Jon saw questions written all over her face, she didn’t press.

A blanket, folded neatly, was pressed on his lap. Jon looked up at the nurse, this time his own questions reflected in his eyes.

“It gets cold here at night. You don’t look like you’re going to leave anytime, soon.”

Oh. With his free hand, Jon unfolded the blanket and haphazardly strewed it over himself. That was somewhat warmer. Jon muttered a grateful thanks. Initially, he’d been planning to use Martin’s jacket, but this would do better. He awkwardly took it off him and hung it over the back of the chair. Jon heard the _clack_ of the cobweb lighter, thrust into one of the pockets, against the back of the chair. How strange to think that he’d only been given it again that afternoon.

He curled up on the chair further as the nurse departed, his eyes blearily focused on Martin. Martin hadn’t woken since Jon had stepped into the room. More to the point, Martin didn’t show any _signs_ of waking. And Jon supposed that he would wake up well enough if Martin called for him. So long as Martin didn’t wake up alone, it would be fine, and Jon wasn’t going anywhere.

He settled his head against the side of the bed again. Jon closed his eyes. He counted himself lucky that Martin was even alive, at all, and Jon let himself fall asleep.

-

_Harp._

_If I go outside, I’m going to hurt people._

_If I stay inside, I’m going to die._

_I didn’t stay inside._

-

Jon’s hands were empty when he opened his eyes again. In his sleep, he had contorted himself into a ball on the chair. Both arms were wrapped around his knees, with his head awkwardly crooked against his shoulder. He raised his head and winced – god, his neck _ached._

According to the clock on the wall, it was 3:04 AM. _Witching hour,_ Jon thought to himself whimsically as he completely unfolded himself. He cast a glance to the bed next to him.

Martin was missing.

Martin’s bed was entirely empty. The sheets were torn back, various tubes – the ends of which were covered in blood – lay curled up on the mattress below. Looking up, Jon looked up to see that the door was thrown completely open instead of being nearly cracked shut. He was _positive_ it hadn’t been that way before.

_Shit._ Shit, perhaps something had happened during the night and the doctors had taken him for something – though that didn’t explain the crudely extracted IVs laying on the bed, still. Jon was up from the bed in a second, looking back and forth for his cane.

Cane wasn’t there. But his cane _had_ been there, he had used it to get into the room. Had someone taken it? One of the nurses? But _why?_

It didn’t matter. Jon reached for the jacket on the back of the chair and shoved his arms through the sleeves, keeping it on. Snorting in anger, Jon put one hand on the wall and leaned on it as he exited Martin’s hospital room. He could still hear some conversation going on at the nurse’s station at the very far end of the corridor, but otherwise, the hallway was empty. Considering it unlikely that Martin had managed to escape without a nurse noticing him, Jon turned and went the other direction.

His leg complained about him thoroughly for the jostling, but Jon thought that he would find out what happened to the cane _later._ Martin had been utterly passed out when he’d last seen him, just four hours ago. He wasn’t well. He ought not to have been up and about.

Jon turned a corner of the hallway, faced with another long corridor. It was covered with identical doors on either sides, all shut or nearly there, presumably with sleeping patients inside. However, the sensation of a long, _long_ hallway with old yellow wallpaper and identical doors … was eerie. But, it passed quickly when he saw the figure standing at the far end of the corridor. There was a window, there, but Jon couldn’t see much out of it. Just darkness.

Still. The figure was unmistakable. But what was _Martin_ doing, staring out the window in an awful hospital gown, in the middle of the night? Jon called his name to no response. As he drew closer, he saw that his cane was in Martin’s grip. Martin was putting no weight on it, but simply holding it in his hand. What was more, the window was open. Jon could feel the chill pouring in from the window already, and he was nowhere near close enough to it as Martin was.

“Martin,” Jon called again, this time with more caution in his voice. Something was very, very wrong, indeed. He shivered as he came up from behind him, but Martin didn’t react to his presence.

Martin’s gaze wasn’t peering out the window, either, like Jon would expect. It was latched firmly onto the windowsill, where … ah, yes, as Jon would expect. A trickle of spiders was pouring in, all in a neat, orderly line. They were crawling across the length of the white sill and then reaching the wall, beginning their descent to the floor. He didn’t know their final destination, but figured it was nothing good. Jon placed his hand on Martin’s shoulder. Through the thin fabric of the medical gown, Martin was cold.

Right. Jon withdrew his jacket and placed it over Martin’s shoulders. Martin didn’t react to pull his arms through the sleeves, so it sat around his body like an ill-smelling cape. He looped his arm through one of Martin’s and gave a swift tug backward. “Martin,” he repeated for the third time, hesitation and unsteadiness in his voice. “Let’s go back to the room.”

He managed to get Martin one step backwards. In response, Martin snapped his head to look at Jon as if alerted. His glasses were almost entirely covered in condensation, but behind them, Jon could see that there was fog in his gaze. If Martin was in there, he was very, very far away indeed. Jon wet his lips in concern and gave him another silent tug backward.

Maybe this was just … the Web wearing off. When they’d gotten to Scotland, Martin had been silent. He had only silently held Jon’s hand, staring at him with wide, dim-witted eyes the entire while. Jon had led him to the bedroom and bid him to sleep while he investigated the rest of the safehouse for traps or weak points. When he had returned, Martin had still been sitting on the bed where Jon had left him, looking lost and dazed.

Jon didn’t think this night would end quite the same way – feeling Martin start to warm under his arms as they laid together in bed, arms wrapped one another comfortably, too exhausted and too traumatized to worry about boundaries. Hearing Martin utter a soft ‘thank you’ against his neck and the arms around him slowly start to tighten. Tears. There had been tears on his end, too, and Jon had cried in relief that Martin was returning back to him.

No, the most he could hope for was to get Martin to lay down and sleep this off. Martin took another step, Jon’s cane loosely held in his hand. Well, if he was going to be leading Martin, the least he could do was use his cane, too. He used his other hand to reach for the cane. Jon’s hands wrapped around the smooth wood. Jon tugged it.

Immediately, Martin withdrew the cane from his grasp. With more speed than Jon thought he was capable of in this state and yet still feeling painfully, unbearably slow, Martin raised the cane above his head. Jon managed to force out, “Martin, _what –”_ Before the cane came down across the top of his skull. The height difference only aided Martin and condemned Jon.

Jon’s body went limp. Nobody caught him as he fell backward, his head additionally cracking against the hard linoleum. His glasses went skittering across the floor, splattered with blood.

-

_“Go on, go on,” a gossamer-light voice rasped. Martin would follow._

_-_

Jon came to again, mostly because of the awful pain shooting through his skull. His feet weren’t on the ground, and Jon kicked his legs weakly for a second, before realizing that he was being held. Whoever was holding him wasn’t intentionally jostling him, but he could’ve held him a little more carefully, in Jon’s opinion. They were walking through a corridor. Jon’s shoes occasionally brushed against the walls, which were alternating between roughly packed dirt and cool plaster.

_Tunnels,_ Jon thought to himself dimly, _below the Institute._ He’d recognize them anywhere. How many times had he trampsed around down here with a torch in one hand and his phone in another, thumb hovering over the dial button for 999? Christ, how goddamn _innocent_ he’d been back then.

With his location properly sussed, Jon turned his head to examine his captor. The action made him moan in pain and he writhed in the strong arms that held him. Perhaps stunned by Jon being awake, whoever was holding him looked down.

Jon was near-sighted, and this man was close enough that he could make out his face. How could he ever forget Martin’s face, anyway?

It was stained with soot and ash. _That’s right,_ Jon reminded himself, _The Institute burned down._ What a pleasure it was to see that the tunnels hadn’t collapsed with it. Martin’s stubble had grown further and was stained and smeared black in some places. _You look so handsome with it, wish you’d let it grow out,_ Jon wondered, mostly dazed, as he tried and failed to reach up to stroke him. The condensation had grown worse on his glasses, completely obscuring his eyes. All Jon saw when he looked up into his eyes was a misty white.

He wanted to ask where Martin was taking him, but he figured that perhaps even Martin didn’t know. Jon wasn’t going to waste his breath. Not when everything hurt so badly. His head relaxed into the crook of Martin’s elbow, where it granted him some relief.

Jon was scared, of course. Scared of being transported by his Web-controlled friend to places unknown. But he’d spent so long being scared that it had all sort of lost his edge. There was only so many ways to skin a cat or torture a man, and Jon had been through the gamut of them.

If anything, his only concern was that the Web would dispose of Martin when it was done with him. Jon would rake himself over hot coals to prevent that from happening. He raised his hand, the one covered with finger-shaped burn marks, and pressed it against Martin’s chest. A heart beat, firm and steady, underneath his fingers.

_You should’ve stayed in the Institute,_ Jon told himself wearily, _been the Eyeclops or the Oculothorax or the Eye Guy for the rest of eternity. Martin would’ve been well out of this mess. You liked being a monster. You liked having those abilities. Martin would’ve lived his normal life._

Or perhaps the Web would’ve taken him over anyway. Jon wished he knew.

Together, the pair came into a small, round opening. As best as he was able, Jon twisted his head this way and that. An operating theater. Not a particularly modern one. There was the actual surgical area in the circular center, consisting of an operation table. A small wooden barrier encircling it, accompanied by tiered wooden benches for hopeful young medical students who could gaze down at the grisly operation below.

Jon could see that the benches weren’t empty, but they also weren’t filled with people – at least, they weren’t filled by anyone alive. Vaguely humanoid-shaped sacs of webbing sat there. Some of them were moving. It wasn’t rhythmic, as if they were being blown by the wind. Instead, portions of the sacs pulled and stretched and elongated and compressed, as if whatever was inside was making a brutal grasp to break free.

_Oh my, oh my, said the spider to the fly, you can certainly try._

Martin nevertheless lurched forward. Jon realized his destination fairly quickly and struggled vainly in his grasp. It yielded no fruit. Jon was placed on the operating table. Before he could get his feet off the table, Martin tightened restrains around his ankles. Before he could get his arms off the table, Martin tightened restraints around his wrists. Jon was stuck there as securely as … well. He wouldn’t let himself think of flies and webs. _Restraints cannot be a standard part of an operating table,_ Jon thought to himself desperately, _surely. That’s barbaric._

Nevertheless, Jon was strapped down, stuck down, only faintly able to strain himself. It only took a few minutes before Jon stilled, realizing it was useless. Conserving his strength was perhaps the best strategy, here. Instead, he just stared up at the surgical lighthead above, casting only a brief illumination around the room.

Eight lights stared back at him, affixed to the arm of the device. Jon could have laughed in despair.

A figure stood up from the lowest tier of the wooden benches, though Jon couldn’t comfortably call her human. She was tall – taller than any human that had ever existed – and yet it didn’t seem _unnatural,_ because her movements were smooth and elegant. Her skin was a deep bronze color, criss-crossed by the webbing that seemed to encompass her entire body. She was wearing clothes – Jon could see a scrap of black lace-like fabric around her neck – but it was impossible to tell much. A shock of dark blond hair was visible on the right side of her head, but the left …

Well. Cobwebs covered the broken part of her skull. It wasn’t simply a crack in her cranium – a portion of the skull was clearly _missing,_ because spiders were crawling from the inside _out._ She didn’t seem to be bothered as they crawled back through her ear, or her mouth. 

And … Jon considered, how funny it was that avatars of the Web _also_ had more eyes than truly recommended. Two large black eyes stared at him hungrily, but six smaller black ones glittered around her temples and forehead. Black sludge steadily dripped from her mouth.

Jon wondered if he was anything more than a heart thudding against his ribcage. It beat so rapidly and so loudly that it was hard to imagine he was made of anything else.

“Thank you, Martin,” Annabelle whispered. Broken fibers of cobweb hung around her face like so many strings, almost giving the appearance of gray wisps of hair. “You’ve been _such_ a help.” Whenever she opened her mouth, Jon saw – he couldn’t call them fangs, comfortably, because they were horizontal little black claws situated just inside of her mouth but – _chelicerae!_ His mind unhelpfully supplied. _Jackknife chelicerae! That’s what they’re called._

As a child, after the business with Mr. Spider, Jon had had an uncharacteristic, fleeting show of bravery. If he understood spiders, he had told himself, then they would cease to be scary. Knowledge was the source of bravery, wasn’t it? So he had gone to the library, picked up a book on spiders, and read it. At night, underneath his covers, with a torch. He had stared down at the pictures of the chelicerae – the large appendages in front of the mouth of the group _Chelicerata –_ had started crying immediately, and had went to go sleep in his grandmother’s bed for the night.

Now, he pictured those claws ripping into his chest, at exposing his jackrabbit heart, and wanted to start crying again.

“But that’ll be all. Go home, get some rest. I’ll be certain to call upon you if I need you.” All eight eyes were situated firmly on Jon, even as Annabelle spoke to Martin. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon watched Martin nod and take a step back.

The idea of being alone here, trapped with her, was terrifying. But Jon wasn’t so foolish to think that he could convince Martin to stay – he wasn’t so foolish to think that he could break through the Web’s hold via the power of friendship, of loyalty, of _love._ A storybook ending was not going to save Jon’s skin. Death was inevitable, _always._

But perhaps love could dull the edges of it, at least a little.

He managed to flex his hand and just reach the edge of Martin’s jacket, the one he’d himself been wearing for days. In a twisted sense, it now returned to its rightful owner again. “Martin,” Jon impressed upon him. “Martin, if you’re in there – if you can understand me – ­ _this isn’t your fault.”_ He wet his lips desperately. A significant portion of Jon’s hair was matted to his scalp with blood; he could feel the uncomfortable weight there. There was no recognition in Martin’s face; his eyes still hidden behind his glasses. “You didn’t _do_ this. Please, _please_ don’t consider, even for a second, that you’re to blame.” Jon forced a smile upon his face, though it trembled significantly at the edges. “If anything, you’re the one who made this all a bit more – “

Jon suddenly shouted in pain. Turning his head, he saw that Annabelle had just shoved one of her very long fingers into his shoulder. The bronzed skin darkened into a beetle black, sharp enough to pierce him. “That’ll be all,” Annabelle intoned again.

Martin hadn’t even looked down to acknowledge him. Jon just saw the white-gray from his fogged-up glasses. Hell, who knew whether Martin was even in there? Perhaps Annabelle had scooped him out and left him a husk. Jon looked down at his hands, hanging limply at his sides. Too far away to grab. Besides, he didn’t want to risk another stab wound to the shoulder. He already felt faint.

Nodding, Martin turned on his heel and seemed to march out of the operating room. As soon as he stepped away from the operating table, he was nothing more than a smudge to Jon’s awful vision. Still, he watched that smudge walk away until he turned a corner, and then Martin was no more.

Impossible to know whether he’d get home safely. Whether he’d get eaten by something in the tunnels, or – whether Annabelle would even _care._

It was out of his hands, now. Jon tried to focus. He _was_ in the Institute, after all, even if it was just the singed remains of the building that had once stood, perhaps he could simply … Know … but nothing came to him. Only empty hopeful wishes. Turning to look at Annabelle, Jon felt as mortally, weakly, cowardly human as he ever had.

Under the bright light from overhead, Jon could only see those black eyes glittering at him. The black sludge from her mouth dripped and landed on Jon’s arm, and he flinched at the impact. His hair was spread out as best as it could be on the surgical table, and Jon could see his own chest rising and falling with every breath.

Jon wanted to offer a faintly sarcastic quip. Several were at the tip of his tongue, but his mouth seemed frozen – no, that wasn’t quite right. His lips, and indeed his entire face, was trembling in fear.

“I _do_ like you, Jon. You’re my favorite out of all of them, really,” Annabelle offered, a quiet voice piercing through the darkness. “So I think we’ll have some _fun_ first. At least … well.” She opened her mouth a little wider, and Jon saw the chelicerae glint against the light. “At least until I get hungry.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Kidnapping, mentions of brief torture, Web-related body horror

Martin woke up in his own bed with a start, cold sweat plastered to his forehead.

He didn’t yet sit up to look out the window, but Martin could nevertheless hear birds outside. He woke up surrounded by his blankets, warmed by his own body. It smelled of flowers – granted, aerosol spray that smelled of flowers, but flowers nevertheless. Someone had cleaned his flat while he had been … gone? Away?

Nearly dead?

Martin shoved his palms into his eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath. _It was over,_ he told himself, because he could think clearly. He was exhausted, still, and every part of his skin seemed to itch, but it was _alive._ It was _over._ Everything was beautiful, and life was moving on.

_Jon._

Last night rushed back to him in the second minute of being waking up, because Martin had _been there._ He’d been in his mind, watching, _banging_ out on the barriers of his own mind as he watched himself move against his own will. He remembered taking up the cane, and a thought, sharp as an arrow – _ATTACK HIM, MARTIN, NOW NOW DO IT NOW –_ and then – and then –

Jon needed his help.

Martin got out of bed so quickly that he nearly fell on his knees, rushing to his drawer. He was still in his old hospital gown and – wow, the old jacket that he’d given to Jon days ago. Everything _hurt,_ Christ, everything was sore and itched and he accidentally turned too hard when getting up and the resultant pain from his chest made him dead-set convinced that he was about to have a heart attack except no, that’s not where the heart is, Martin, stupid –

If he let himself panic, he wasn’t going to get anything done. Martin took a deep breath, tried to ignore the pain, and kept moving.

As he yanked his drawer open to change into a pair of clean clothes, something fell from around his shoulders and to the floor.

Jon’s jacket.

Well, his own jacket, but Jon’s jacket now. That was right. Jon had seen him standing in front of an open window, and had given him his jacket. After changing, Martin picked it back up and, without a second thought, put it back on. He shoved his hands into the pockets, and his fingers closed around cold metal. He extracted it.

A lighter with a spiderweb design on it. Martin didn’t know that Jon smoked, but the sight of the engraving made him flinch. He shoved it back into his pocket and went towards the front door of his flat.

The cleanup wasn’t perfect. Especially on the ceilings, Martin saw the remnants of cobwebs gunked up there. But Martin didn’t see any more spiders there. He wondered where they had all gotten to before he saw at least a half-dozen bin bags resting on his front door. He could see that some were gray on the inside. Some were entirely black.

Martin would sit down and ponder all of this later – and, if he were being honest, probably look for another flat – but now, Jon _needed_ him. If Jon was even alive, he desperately needed _someone_ to go after him.

It didn’t occur to Martin to simply let Jon be. The idea of directly confronting the woman that had been terrorizing him for a week was _terrifying,_ but not in a way that discouraged Martin from going to bring him back – just in a way that meant Martin definitely was not going to go _alone._

Martin was out the front door, not even bothering to lock it behind him as he rushed down towards Melanie and Georgie’s door. He slammed his fist against it, before letting out a loud, raspy curse. No, he was going to avoid using that entire side of his body, wasn’t he? Broken ribs weren’t exactly forgiving.

Nevertheless, he was saved from having to strain his injury further by the opening of the door to reveal … oh. Daisy. Martin didn’t have time to wonder why Daisy was there. “Daisy. Daisy, we have to go get Jon, he’s been – the Web is holding him, Annabelle, she –” Martin rasped, before cutting himself off.

Daisy’s posture changed enormously. She dropped into a defensive position, arms at her sides, and Martin was reminded of the first and only time that he had played rugby after a misguided teenage thought of _rugby’s a man thing, and I’m a man, so playing rugby would be fantastic!_ And then getting tackled and hurt so badly he had to sleep on his stomach for a week.

Oh god, Daisy was going to hurt him.

Dark, manicured fingers closed around Daisy’s shoulder. The person herself – Georgie – was too short to look properly over Daisy’s shoulder, but nevertheless peeked around to see who was there. “ _Martin!?”_

“Georgie,” Martin forced out, wringing his hands. “Georgie, it’s – it’s Jon, he’s been taken.” _Does it count as being taken if I’m the one who took him?_ “I need help to go get him.”

Daisy didn’t appear to relax at all. In fact, her arm went to press against the doorframe, as if blocking Martin access. Her face hardened into a sharp glare, and Martin looked desperately at Georgie. “You’re meant to be in hospital, you’ve got red eyes and you’re talking like you’ve been possessed,” Georgie explained in a voice that didn’t imply she was talking about anything odd, “Which … you haven’t. Have you?”

Oh. Were his eyes red? Martin hadn’t bothered to look in the mirror since he’d gotten up, but his voice definitely sounded like he was raking it over sandpaper. He touched a hand to his throat and winced at the bruising there. “ _No!”_ He insisted. “And – Christ, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for just showing up like this, but I need help. Jon’s been taken.”

Over Daisy’s shoulder, he could see the other two standing up from the couch. They’d been eating lunch, it looked like, and Martin was again faced with not knowing what time it was. He assumed that his mobile was lying dead somewhere in his flat, and it wasn’t as if he’d checked before he’d gone rushing out.

Daisy’s face didn’t soften, but Martin could see her subtly switch her priorities. Melanie reached on the coat rack and took a denim coat off. Basira placed her hand on the small of Georgie’s back. “I left my gun in your car,” she murmured lowly. Georgie waved her hand away.

“We’ll take mine anyway. I – “ A quick headcount. “Should be able to take all of us. Martin, do you know where we’re going?”

As if he’d ever be able to forget watching himself stumble through the tunnels of the Archives, of pulling himself up on the charred, blackened foundations of the Institute, of bloody _walking home_ at three in the morning. Martin nodded. “Shotgun, then. Right,” Georgie offered, looking over her shoulder, “Is everyone ready?”

He watched as four women checked their pockets for various weapons. Georgie looked at the cricket bat, still lying in the corner of the front room, and swept it up. She bounced it a few times in her hands before nodding up at Martin.

Martin wasn’t certain how Jon had so quickly lodged themselves in all of their lives. Maybe it was their past memories, subconsciously influencing their actions in the smallest ways. Maybe it was the call of the weird, instinctively driving them to uncover more. Maybe it was just Jon. And maybe knowing Jon made him a better person out of necessity.

He didn’t feel _confident_ when they all piled into Georgie’s small green car, but he felt a hell of a lot better than he would if he were confronting Annabelle alone. He wasn’t even sure what would stop her from taking control of him if he even showed up, but at least his mind was his own now. He found himself focusing on Georgie’s hands on the wheel, just to make sure – _move your hand to the right. Move your hand to the_ right.

Nothing. Martin had no powers, which was just the way he liked it.

Instead, all he received was Georgie clearing her throat as she started the ignition. “ _Well?”_ Melanie asked from the backseat, firmly between Basira and Daisy. “Are you going to explain where Jon is and why _you_ aren’t in hospital? We’ve been trying to reach him for hours. Showed up at the hospital this morning, even, and nobody was able to find you. Nobody even remembered you leaving.”

They pulled out from behind Georgie’s flat complex and joined the main road. Martin could still see the smashed store front from before, cordoned off with police tape still. That had felt like a lifetime ago, honestly, and perhaps it had been.

“I’d … I’d been having weird dreams for a while,” Martin admitted, and began. Explained everything that had happened to him. Some parts he could easily gloss over – and some parts Basira and Daisy explained themselves, what had led them to break into Martin’s flat and find him wrapped in his little web prison. That Jon had insisted at staying at the hospital overnight with Martin, in case he would wake. The itching Martin felt was no longer entirely due to the bites, he figured. If Jon hadn’t waited there, then he would’ve been fine.

Hopefully … hopefully he would still be fine, Martin tried to convince himself. Hopefully they weren’t too late. Because Jon might’ve been brave enough to save Martin from the grasps of the web, but Martin wasn’t anywhere near. He’d never been brave. He was just a normal man, and no matter what Jon remembered of him, he was nothing exceptional.

Martin guided Georgie through a series of lefts and rights. The last time he’d been there was nearly four in the morning, and if anybody had seen a large man carrying a passed-out, bleeding smaller man, they certainly hadn’t stopped him or called the police. Eventually, Basira leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Martin,” she asked directly, “Are you leading us to the Magnus Institute?”

They rounded the corner, and there the remains were. All five of them stared at the large building. It was strange, to be there again, when his mind was his own. Martin was positive that he had so many memories there. Jon had indicated as much. How many times had he fought for his life there? Been scared there?

None of his memories came back to him, and Martin thought that that might have been a good thing.

“Yeah,” Martin murmured under his breath. They were all staring at the old building, agape. “Sorry. Should’ve mentioned that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Basira returned, sounding stunned.

Silence passed between them before Georgie asked, softly, “Not to intrude, but, ah, I happen to notice that this place is _burned down._ Where, exactly, would someone be keeping Jon?” She put on her indicator to turn into a lot.

Basira leaned halfway across Martin’s lap to reach for her gun in the glovebox. Martin tugged his jacket tighter around himself in response, nervously gazing at the chipped black wood of his, apparently, former place of employment. “There’s tunnels,” Martin offered hollowly. “I – Jon mentioned them, just briefly, but everything else seemed so much more –"

Melanie snapped her fingers. “Right. The worm incident. That was before the three of us worked there.”

“Y-yeah.” Martin took a deep, shuddering breath. “They go on for ages. But. I remember the way.”

-

Jon’s eyes focused on a spider, just a few inches above his face. The spider had come from the overhead light fixture. Achingly slowly, it had weaved its way down on a single strand. Jon didn’t know whether Annabeth was controlling it or whether it had the good sense to stay away, but it never went _on_ his face, but instead dangled just far enough so that Jon could focus on it.

He was tired. He was dehydrated. He was bitten. Jon just wanted to sleep. Closing his eyes, Jon suddenly startled back awake with a shout when he felt Annabelle dig her finger into his upper arm.

“It’s quite nice of you, providing little targets like this,” she remarked. Jon twisted his head just so he could see what she was talking about – ah. The latest injury had occurred right on his highly-circular worm scars. “You must _really_ want me to go after your face.” The finger, still wet with Jon’s own blood, stroked from temple to chin. Jon knew he had at least ten there – shallower ones, and some oddly-shaped from when he’d plucked them out instead of using the damn corkscrew, but still.

Jon was too tired to try and be strong. “Please don’t,” he instead whispered, forcing his eyes back open. No, Jon wasn’t the sort to die being a smartarse. He didn’t want to die at all. He wanted Martin, he wanted Georgie, he wanted Basira and Daisy and Melanie and he wanted cozy front rooms eating Italian takeaway and he wanted his hand to be held and hell, he’d even take _nice cows._

“Now, come on. Rack your memory, why don’t you?” The finger stroked the edge of his chin. “I’ll even let you close your eyes to try and think.”

And Jon did close his eyes, but he had already thought all that he needed. When he had first been brought here by Martin, he hadn’t been coherent enough to really _analyze_ his surroundings. It wasn’t like he was much more coherent now, not with this spectacular pounding in his head, but it was certainly … quieter.

He could hear noises coming from some of the sacs, seated this way and that on the viewing area. Jon didn’t like hearing the noises, most of all. The only time he was granted when any peace was when Annabelle left him, going up the wooden stairs to approach some of the sacs, and … the noises grew much _sloppier_ then. She would always come back down with fresh black sludge dripping off her face.

“I’m the only one I know of,” Jon insisted weakly, again. “When I was trapped here, I couldn’t feel any other Avatars of the Eye. I _know_ Elias is dead. You burned down the bloody place; there _aren’t any more.”_

It was something he’d been stating, on and off, for the past several hours. Nothing he said seemed to appease her. He had several more wounds on his torso and neck to attest to that. Annabelle led out a distasteful noise.

“For how long Jonah had been around, you would think he would have _some_ sort of back-up. Bother, isn’t it.”

Jon opened his eyes to find the spider nearly touching his eyeball. He let out a disgusted, panicked noise and flexed against his restraints, but they held firm. Annabelle let out a ‘tutting’ noise and the spider retracted a few inches. _God,_ Jon thought to himself, _god god god god god._

“If I knew what you wanted them for … maybe that would help?” The question sat stiff in the air. “I – I – I mean. They, people taken by the Eye, they tend to get … absorbed rather quickly? You know. Into cameras and speakers and things. Trapped there. Tends to be a side effect. Being trapped.” The neverending hallways of the library were fresh in his mind. At least he hadn’t been trapped in a computer for the rest of his life, _whatever that even meant._

He let out another grunt of pain as Annabelle scratched down his forearm. It drew blood, but only just. “So are you _saying_ that you know someone, but you just won’t tell _me?”_

“No no no no. Not what I’m saying, no,” Jon defended himself, trying to pull away from her fingers. “I’m just. Trying to get a better idea of what you’re looking for. Hardly a. A binary thing, you know. Avatar, not-Avatar. I fancied myself inhuman for years before … before I started growing eyes. You know.”

Annabelle seemed to consider this carefully. She had perched herself on the edge of the surgical table, causing a small cascade of spiders to gleefully traverse across this new substrate. They crawled over Jon’s legs and hands, and while he did flinch, he didn’t make a noise or move. Everything else hurt too much.

“Think it’s obvious, isn’t it? But … well, you never were particularly bright.” Annabelle raised a finger and delicately plucked the string of the spider above Jon’s face. It started to swing back and forth in the air. “I want to, ah, puppeteer them. Can you _imagine_ what information I could get from an Avatar of the Eye? The kinds of knowledge they have access to?”

She started to smile, and Jon hated it the most when she smiled. Jon couldn’t see her teeth – it all seemed to be an aching black void past her lips, but he _could_ see the glint of the fangs in her mouth. How easily they could fit around the soft skin of his neck. Jon swallowed.

“ _Can_ you imagine, Jon? Having someone that can tell me whatever I need to know, from _anyone._ I’d never have to worry about how to lure people into my web ever again. I’d know the perfect piece of information to have them come _running.”_

Yes. Yes, Jon fancied that he could imagine thoroughly. He didn’t want to think of the dangers of having someone who could assist in knowing everything and controlling everyone. His mouth felt dry. “Why not me, then?” Jon took a large, shuddering breath. It wasn’t like he _wanted_ to, but … the question had to be asked. “You knew where an Avatar of the Eye was. And you burned down the Magnus Institute to flush him out.”

“Well, you see, darling, you didn’t have a mouth. I couldn’t have you controlling people on my behalf without a mouth.”

That. That was not an unfair point.

“Besides, you were far too powerful. I wanted someone connected to the Eye, but if you get too close … well, you would hardly listen to anything I told you, would you?” Annabelle’s hand was flat on his chest, with Jon’s heart beating against her palm. It sped up. “No, no. I thought I would set you free, give you some time to distance yourself from the Eye, and _then_ bring you here.”

Jon was breathing through his mouth, now. His eyes were focused on the spider in front of him, now too concerned to blink. He had felt the small creature’s legs brush against the very tip of his nose. “What about Martin, then? Where’s Martin fit into all this?”

“Genuinely, I hadn’t intended for Martin to run into you. But it worked out rather well for me. The Web’s always been aware of Martin as a potential puppet for us. He’s got all the best qualities. Hero worship, pushover, yielding to a _fault …”_

“Don’t – “ Jon immediately started, trying to rise up from the table again. It, as he knew before he started, was fruitless. For his trouble, he got another finger stabbed through him, this time just above his collarbone. _Don’t talk about him like that,_ Jon finished internally.

“Trouble was, he took far too long to actually commit to it. Locked himself in his flat for days, for God’s sake, it was very annoying. By that time, you’d barely been touched by the Eye at all.” Annabelle let out a displeased sigh as she extracted her finger from Jon’s chest. “ _So_ I had to take you back to one of the sources of its power. Wait for it to all start coming back to you, and _then_ I’ll take over your brain. How’s that sound?”

Jon shook his head childishly. No, he wouldn’t be doing _that_ again. Starbursts of pain bloomed behind his eyes and he shut them to try and get it under control. That led to Annabelle stabbing him – _again –_ this time in the neck, though fantastically avoiding anything that would rather increase Jon’s death.

Gurgling in agony, Jon snapped his eyes open to see Annabelle herself, a few inches away from his face, all eight eyes focused on him with a malevolent intensity.

“Rude not to answer a question.”

“I don’t _have_ a connection to the Eye anymore. I haven’t for days. Any powers I had – they’re gone. For _good,_ I’ve – I’ve been away too long. I don’t. I can’t. I would, if I could, I want to, god, I want to feel _good,_ but --” He knew that there were tears flowing from his eyes, though he wouldn’t let himself give in to start to sob. He couldn’t. “I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

“Aren’t I? Close your eyes again, Jon, I won’t bite. _See what you know.”_

And Jon did, obediently, flutter his eyes closed. He took solace in the darkness, as temporary as it was, and breathed in deeply.

“What’s in your Institute, Jon?”

A moment, nothing.

Another moment, and the answer slunk into Jon’s brain, as easily as if he were checking for rain outside.

“Zero cockroaches,” Jon whispered, “Zero rats.” A beat. “Three million, four hundred thousand, and three hundred and fifty four spiders.”

That made Annabelle laugh, a short, shuddering sort of sound. It echoed throughout the operating theater, bouncing off the walls. “Something _interesting,_ Jon? I know how many spiders are in this place. How many people are here?”

If he could keep his eyes closed against the burning light of the surgical lamp overhead, Jon was willing to say whatever she wanted. He kept quiet until he felt the tip of her fingernail brush against his wrist, before he said it all at once.

“One person!” Jon shot out. “One person. Jonathan Sims. Born 1987. In Bournemouth. Only child. One Avatar. Web. Annabelle Cane. Born 1991. Norfolk. Youngest of eight. Studied psychology at University. Left-handed.” How much of that had he known? How much of that had he Known? Jon felt his chest shuddering up and down his panic – no, no, he couldn’t be Knowing things again, he couldn’t become That again, he couldn’t – he couldn’t be – no no no _no!_

And yet, it gave him a burst of pleasure, the only decent thing he’d felt since coming here. More overwhelming was the burst of horror.

He didn’t want to be a monster again. He wanted to have a life, friends, someone he loved. He didn’t want to put people in pain again. He didn’t want to hurt those he cared about. He was so close to escaping all this, and that had been so much sweeter than any monstrous Knowing.

The tip of the fingernail brushed along his wrist, down to his palm, crossing over the lines in his hand. “Good _job,_ Jon,” she cooed. “Very good. I really do think a bit of pain _pushes_ you along, doesn’t it?”

The tears were coming more, now. He had come so far. He had _escaped_ this place. He had seen the _sky._

He’d been able to accept it when he thought death was his consequence, but this, being puppeteered? _This,_ Jon could never allow himself to do. But he was left with little options, which meant that crying would neither help or harm him. Jon started to sob on the surgical table, his shoulders shaking with the effort. The movement made his head hurt more, but he couldn’t stop himself. He only cried, in pain and despair and terror. _Please don’t make me into a monster again. Please. Please, I can’t._

“Now, now,” Annabelle soothed, “Open up.”

Jon obediently opened his eyes to stare back into hers. He could see his own face reflected by the shiny black spheres, and he was afraid.

Annabelle got off the table, giving Jon a full view of the surgical overhead lights above. His eyes ached with their intensity, but blindness was preferable to staring at Annabelle for much longer. He gradually started to relax his muscles on the table. “Just _time,_ then,” Annabelle replied with something like enthusiasm. “Think I’m getting peckish. Hungry for anything, Jon?”

Figuring the question was a hurtful hypothetical, Jon went silent. In a flash, Annabelle was on him again – all five fingers stabbed into his chest, just above his heart. It was hard not to imagine the fingers sinking down – down – _down –_ until they closed around his heart proper –

Jon screamed out in pain again. “ _No!”_ He yelled, shaking his head. “No, no, god, Annabelle, _no.”_

A black-speckled tongue flicked out to wet her lips as Annabelle smiled. She turned away from the table, and Jon heard the click of her feet and the creak of the wood as she climbed into the viewing area. Jon tilted his head away just enough to get some relief from the overhead light, _and_ so he didn’t have to see her feed. He heard her chuckle, low and airy, when she found her prey.

Jon half-closed his eyes, more tears leaking out onto his nose.

Just like that, he became aware that something had changed. Around him, Jon couldn’t see anything different in the room, and yet, something fundamental about his world had _changed._ He closed his eyes a little further while Annabelle was distracted to focus. When he did, he became aware of what had changed.

There was still one Avatar. Annabelle. Youngest of eight. Web. Raging bitch. Et cetera.

But there were six people.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief mention of torture, hospitals, spiders, arson

Martin tugged his jacket a little tighter around him as they walked through the tunnels. He was half-convinced that they thought he was either (a) crazy, (b) leading them in circles, or both. Still, they followed him as he led them through the tunnels. It was the heterogeneity in the tunnels that surprised Martin most: sometimes, he looked like he was walking through a dirt mine, and sometimes, it looked _exactly_ like a haunted asylum from a film.

Basira and Georgie had torches that they shined ahead of them. Daisy was walking parallel with Martin – if she knew where she was going, Martin had no doubt that she would be racing ahead of them. Thankfully, she didn’t, even if Martin gratefully noted that she would round corners first to make certain nothing was there.

They didn’t talk, between them. Martin wasn’t certain if there was anything to say. He knew that he, himself, had picked up a peculiar feeling from the moment they had stepped in the tunnels. It was a heavy feeling, dragging him down, down. Even if he’d practically been brushing elbows with the others during the more narrow portions of the tunnels, Martin wasn’t certain if he’d ever felt more fantastically alone in his life before.

Dread. Dread, dark and deep.

Were they being idiots? Were they walking into their deaths? As their feet tapped against the linoleum of what might’ve been a hospital, once, Martin wondered if the best solution – for all of them – was to leave Jon well enough alone.

_You mean leave Jon well enough to die,_ Martin’s mind told him stubbornly. _You selfish dickhead. Right prick you are. Jon saves you from getting eaten by the Web and you’re too scared to do the same? Some hero you are._

Martin shoved down the self-hating thoughts in his head and continued. As long as he thought more about getting there, and not about what he would do once he got there, he … would be okay. He wasn’t sure what the others were feeling, but none of them turned around or hesitated. They were braver than he was, Martin figured. Probably better people, too.

Eventually, though, the journey was at its end. The operation theater was marked by a large wooden door. He didn’t know why these old tunnels had an operation theater of all things, but the tunnels were so immense and so sprawling that Martin hypothesized he could find the world down here if he just looked hard enough. This was where he had taken Jon. He remembered the sound of Jon’s shoes hitting against the doorframe as he’d taken him inside.

Jon had hid his head in his chest. Probably because he was in pain, rather than seeking any form of comfort, but Martin remembered the sensation. That solidified his determination – he would find Jon, or he would bloody well _die trying._

“Right. Everyone ready?” Martin asked, turning around to face the others. He realized that he was the only one without a weapon, more or less, as Basira took out her gun, Georgie pressed her cricket bat over her shoulder, Melanie unsheathed her knife, and … _well,_ he didn’t think brass knuckles were a real thing, but Daisy had them sported across both hands. _Good._ Self-consciously, Martin reached into his pockets.

His fingers curled around the lighter and he extracted it. Well. He supposed if he hit someone hard enough with it, it would do.

“Maybe –” Basira cut herself off, stepping forward. “No offense, Martin, I’m not saying you aren’t great, but I do have experience with – “

Martin’s hands immediately went up in surrender as he stepped back. “Oh my god, no, please go ahead, I don’t have any idea what I’m doing.”

In that end, the order was decided. Basira and Daisy were nearly pressed up against the door, with Georgie and Melanie close behind. Martin had found himself quietly shifted to the back of the crowd, which worked fine for him. The only time in his life he’d gotten in a fistfight involved Basira punching him in the eye. Strangely enough, Martin didn’t think he won that one.

“On three. We’ll open the door and you all get in. Alright?” Daisy grunted, hand pressed against the wooden surface. All of them nodded their heads like bobbleheads in response. She turned to face the door again, Basira rubbing elbows with her. In front of him, he saw Georgie leaned over to press a quick-but-firm kiss to Melanie’s cheek and grab her hand tightly. _Disturbing their perfect little lives,_ Martin attacked himself again, but it was too late for that, because Daisy was at _three._

The door slammed open wide, fast enough and hard enough that it cracked down the center.

Jon was lying there in front of him on the surgical table. Martin wasn’t even sure if he was conscious, because he certainly wasn’t _moving_ at all. He did see blood. A lot of blood. It pooled on the silver chrome table and started to drip on the floor, but Jon – as important as he was – only caught Martin’s attention for a moment. The rest was given to Annabelle.

Annabelle’s height drove her to tower over the surgical overhead, casting her in relative shadow. Martin only saw the shimmer of her eyes and mouth. And in that moment, two things happened.

Annabelle’s clawed hand reached for the surgical arm connected to the lighthead. She yanked it forward – it wasn’t meant to move like that, there was the _screech_ of shearing metal, and eight bright lights shone directly in their faces. Martin winced at the intensity of it and stumbled back against the cracked door.

And Basira fired her gun.

The shot went wide with the sudden light in her eyes. Martin expected to hear the sound of gun striking wood (well, he expected to go temporarily _deaf_ from the sound, and _then_ he expected to hear the sound of gun striking wood), but instead, it hit something … sticky and wet. Martin looked up to see that Basira had shot one of the many egg sacs dotting the wooden benches around the room. It writhed as if something was living inside it, and then collapsed.

Martin wasn’t going to think about it.

Annabelle whipped her head around to gaze at her lost food source, which was enough time for Basira to fire another shot. This one struct her directly in the shoulder, causing her to reel back with a hiss. The overhead light tilted wildly, threatening to break, before getting stuck pointing at the ceiling. While it lit up the room, there was one horrifying second where the light lit Annabelle directly from below.

It wasn’t skin. It wasn’t skin. It wasn’t skin.

Daisy and Georgie were the first to move forward. Martin had to admire their fearlessness – it was one thing to shoot Annabelle from afar (something that Martin was certain he couldn’t do), but it was another to voluntarily surge to her and strike. And strike they did, with Daisy pummeling the brass knuckles against her chest and neck. The cricket bat cracked against the side of her head, but there was too much of a _thump_ there. _Padding,_ Martin thought to himself hysterically, _like she’s wearing a rugby helmet made out of cobweb._

Martin took advantage of the opportunity. He and Melanie went forward to Jon’s side. Jon _was_ moving, and his eyes were open, but they didn’t flick over in recognition. In fact, they were half-lidded. From what he could see, they were an aggravated red. Martin spared a thought for the intense lighthead above. Christ, Jon’s eyes had to have been in agony. Jon also sported circular-ish wounds all across his face, strangely reminiscent of the worm wounds before. They bled freely. Martin could see how chapped his lips were.

He reached for the restraints. In doing so, his fingers inevitably brushed Jon’s, and he saw Jon’s hand flinch. His fingertips were covered in blood, with horrifying scratch marks on the table. _Jon. Oh, Jon, god._

One arm free. Jon didn’t move it, didn’t move a muscle. Martin moved down towards his leg and unfastened the restraints. Somewhere on the other side, he saw Melanie reach for the belt-buckle-esque locks and unfasten them. He just to pull out the thick leather from the metal clasp when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“ _Thief.”_

Martin whipped around to see her, just an inch from his face. The hiss of the word sent black droplets spattering across Martin’s face and glasses.

She was bleeding. Annabelle was bleeding black sludge from her shoulder, her hands were covered in the stuff, it was pouring down her neck and her chest. Cobweb hung in ragged scraps around her body. Behind her, he could see Georgie helping a wounded Daisy – she couldn’t put weight on one leg. Martin saw blood.

The fingernails dug down in his shoulder and Martin shouted, whereupon another two things happened simultaneously.

Jon’s hand, previously motionless on the table, snapped towards him. They wrapped around his wrist with only a loose pressure. Although Martin could feel how cold and clammy they were, he was nevertheless _alive._

And Martin saw the glint of the knife as Melanie plunged her knife into the spiderwoman’s neck.

Letting go of Martin’s shoulder, Annabelle let out a howl. Martin watched in horror as dozens – maybe a _hundred_ spiders fled her mouth, crawling down the sides of her face and her chin. They crawled over one another, and Martin hadn’t thought a spider could seem scared.

Georgie’s hands curled over Melanie’s lighter ones, still clutching the knife pressed into Annabelle’s neck. “I think I know what you were going for, honey,” she grunted, and the knife was extracted with a _squish._ When they struck again, they did so together and found their mark – directly in Annabelle’s ear.

Another scream. Another hundred spiders. Annabelle cringed away from the surgical table, both arms going to her head. Melanie and Georgie backed away from the knife still lodged directly into the woman’s skull. It almost looked as if it were … _separated_ underneath her skin. Martin had a morbid memory of an eggshell, cracked into pieces.

Much better, and much easier, to focus on Jon. Melanie and Georgie could take care of themselves – it wasn’t a heartless admission, but rather a frankly sincere admission of Martin’s own abilities. Martin turned to look at him, at the fingers around his wrist. “I’ve got you,” Martin informed Jon breathlessly. As he wrapped his free arm around Jon’s back, Jon started to move. He was disoriented, dazed. He was mumbling something that Martin couldn’t make out. “I came in to get you. _We_ came in to get you.”

Jon was scooped up in his arms. During the commotion, Jon had dropped his wrist. One rested limply on Jon’s stomach, the other dangled freely as Martin held onto him. His head lolled to the side and rested against Martin’s chest. Finally, his eyes drifted shut.

Annabelle nevertheless staggered to life back towards Martin. There, Martin could take full stock of her injuries - a bulletwound in her shoulder, an obvious fractured skull from a cricket bat, a crumpled chest from the impact of brass knuckles, and a knife currently sticking out of her left ear.

Another crack of a gunshot nearly made Martin drop his patient. Basira had one arm around Daisy’s shoulders, clearly supporting her weight. Daisy’s face was twisted in pain. Both had blood, both red and black, across their faces.

The bullet struck Annabelle in her back. Annabelle gritted her teeth, cracked her spine, and kept ambling towards him. All eight eyes were focused on the man in Martin’s arms. Martin heard the melody in his head, jerky and discordant. It wasn’t the familiar, soothing song he heard before. God. It scared him.

Another shot. Another. The first found its home in Annabelle’s back again, the other impacted the back of her skull. Annabelle’s head lolled forward, but when she looked back up again – the segments of her skull had started to migrate, _separate,_ but she nevertheless kept moving forward.

“ _Give the Archivist back.”_ Martin’s shoulders trembled. He was being compelled, he could know it, feel it, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to give Jon back – he had promised that whatever ended up in his web would be hers, wouldn’t it? And she seemed like such a nice lady. Jon wasn’t dead, after all, and she could have killed him, so what was the harm in giving him back, really?

No. No, _no,_ no. That – Martin would rather die. Gritting his teeth, Martin tightened one arm around Jon’s unconscious body. The other dove into his pocket. Annabelle shuffled ever closer to him. Behind her, Martin could see Basira’s hesitation. Any further shots ran a serious risk of hitting Martin … or Jon. On Annabelle’s other side, Georgie was reaching down for her cricket bat. Already hanging on by a sliver, it quickly broke in half. He could see Georgie still considering its utility as a weapon.

Annabelle raised her trembling hand. Her face was all covered in her blood, now, thick enough that Martin could see spiders trapped in the viscuous liquid. She opened her mouth and Martin saw her fangs. She was hungry.

“ _Mine.”_ It was hissed, a drawl that sent further droplets spattering over Jon and Martin, and Martin was now positive that she’d sooner kill Jon than let him be taken away.

He could just give him back. She might even let him live, otherwise. Leave under his free will. Martin was positive that if he gave Jon back now, that would be the end of it. No more of this. No more Web, no more Annabelle, no more Entities. No more supernatural.

Martin wasn’t a romantic about it. He didn’t want any more of this in his life. Nobody would. He wanted to live a perfectly mundane life, full of meaning and hope and happiness. Mundane wasn’t _a bad choice._ Having a horror-filled nightmare be his every waking moment was _hell._

But he wasn’t going to sacrifice a man for it. Not a man who deserved a mundane life more than anyone.

Martin extracted the lighter from his pocket. “ _Fuck off,”_ he growled in a voice just as raspy as her own. In one fluid movement, he started the lighter and pressed the weak flame against one of the many strands of cobweb hanging from her body.

She went up all at once, like a bonfire. The whoosh of the heat was sudden enough that a portion of Jon’s shirt caught on fire, and Martin quickly squeezed it out with his hand.

Annabelle stumbled backward. The four women parted to allow her through as her back hit against the dry wooden benches of the viewing area. Martin didn’t know how long they’d been there; the wood slowly dry rotting over the decades. However long, they made excellent kindling.

As soon as Annabelle touched them, they started to go up. Fire danced across the wooden benches joyfully, spreading here and there. Every time it hit one of the web-covered sacs, sitting like a prim curious medical student, another pillar of fire erupted from it. Soon, the six people were covered by a circle of fire. And, nearly in the middle of it all, was Annabelle Cane – shriveling away.

A scream came from her, but it wasn’t any scream that Martin could identify as human. It was the scream of a million tiny voices at once, discordant and _agonized._ It was the scream of a million strings being cut, a million minds suddenly becoming their own, a million breaths of relief and peace and horror. The scream of a million people waking up from a very bad dream.

“ _Move!”_ Basira shouted first, and that was when Martin realized that the fire had spread to the ceiling. He heard the sound of wood fracturing and a large piece of it came crashing down onto the wooden benches, smashing a few sacs with alternate cracking and _squishing_ noises.

Martin thought it might be best to follow her lead. Five pairs of feet (and one heavily jostled man) marched in unison out of the surgical theater. When they reached the doorway, they heard more wood splitting behind them, but none dared to look back. Instead, Martin clutched Jon a little tighter against his chest.

He was breathing, still. Shallowly, and Martin could feel his blood start to seep into his own shirt, but he was alive. His hair was plastered to his head with blood, but he was alive. His face was contorted and haunted, but he was alive.

They kept moving through the tunnels.

-

The light was blessedly dim when Jon woke. His eyes still burned, and he found himself keeping them shut for a few minutes longer. Although he had a split-second disorientation, Jon quickly figured out that he was in some sort of hospital bed. There was a time when he had become uncomfortably familiar with hospital linen, and the fact that he could partially feel his arse hanging out from his hospital gown was a fairly good indicator.

Life. He was alive. He recalled some of what occurred, but not at all. He remembered Martin’s streaky face looking down at him – remembered being terrified of his eyes and his voice, just for a brief moment, before he was just flooded with the relief of _Martin._ He had reached out when he heard Martin shout, had felt the warmth of his hand, and he tried to comfort him. He didn’t think it worked. Then he had felt an arm behind his back, lifting him up from the examination table.

The amount of pain that had surged through his body in that moment blurred everything else out. Jon was pretty certain he’d fallen unconscious around then. But what had happened after?

Someone must have lived, because he had been brought here. By someone.

He heard noises. Jon cracked his eyes open to stare straight ahead. The telly was on, broadcasting the news. A picture of the site of the Magnus Institute was on-screen. Dark gray smoke was rising from the foundation, an ominous spectre that hanging low in the sky. Jon couldn’t quite catch all of it, but there was talk that another electrical fire had broken out in the – apparently – tunnels below the infrastructure. Odd. Remarkable. But otherwise a slightly off-beat newstory in a large city. Jon had no doubts that it would be forgotten by tomorrow, and only find life in certain conspiracy-centric circles on the Internet.

The blankets were tucked up well past his chin, and … no, his entire body was tucked in. Perhaps it was juvenile, but it _did_ feel nice. Jon couldn’t move much, but there were no harsh restraints here. Just soft linen, a dim hospital room, the smell of disinfectant, and the sound of TV in the background. Peaceful, really, even if he couldn’t _quite_ feel his limbs –

Sensation came back to him slowly. Three out of four limbs were tucked into the blankets. Jon blinked as he looked for his other limb, the right arm. That one was particularly numb. Given the amount of pain medication he was on (tubes and wires connected him to medical machines, but Jon wasn’t coherent enough to form a more educated thought than that), it took him a fair minute before he realized that his right arm was hanging off the bed.

No. No, it was being held. Martin was in the chair next to him, and his hand was being held. Jon wiggled his fingers with some effort. They were bandaged, all of them just about his fingertips, and a long IV was inserted into the back of his palm. Now, though, he could feel Martin’s soft fingers interlaced between his own, pressed against Martin’s own chest. The sight was familiar.

How funny. _Birds of a feather._

Martin was dead-asleep, though. His head was tilted against the back of the chair. Jon saw some of his curls spill down the side. Despite himself, he smiled from his spot on the bed. Martin was okay. One down as definite. He did have a yellowing bruise on his eye, still, but he was alright. And warm. And didn’t appear to hate him enough _not_ to hold his hand.

Jon wasn’t going to press it. He was going to investigate, instead, his range of movement. Jon managed to extract his other arm from the bed and used it to lever himself up to a sitting position. That went without _too_ much incident, and Jon gave himself a self-satisfied little smile, before –

An alarm started going off near his bed.

“Damn,” Jon growled weakly as he looked toward the offending machine. _What, have I moved too much for you?_ He questioned it mentally. _Now, shut up, you’re going to wake –_

__

“Jon!”

_Shit._

Martin was leaning out of his chair. His right hand was released and placed back on the bed, to Jon’s displeasure – though his attention was focused more on the machine throwing protest at him. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he informed Martin, trying to reach up to the device because there must’ve been a way to shut the thing _off –_

“Everything okay in here?” Now, a nurse was getting involved. Fantastic. Jon wrinkled his nose in a feral sort of expression, starting to press buttons. The machine beeped at him, but the alarm played on. Jon had to focus to try and make out the blurry machine, but nothing really came into play.

His companion reached over to take his arm. “He’s just woken up,” Martin explained patiently as Jon tried to twist and move his fingers outside of Martin’s grasp. He tried to fix the machine, but couldn’t quite get it with Martin holding him like he was trying to restrain a toddler. “Now, Jon –” Some of the patience left Martin’s voice. “ _Would you stop –_ “

The beeping stopped. Jon turned his head around to see the nurse fixing a few parameters on it. Better. Jon finally managed to extricate his fingers from Martin and sulked back onto the bed. Everything was _soft_ in a way that Jon wasn’t sure if he liked or not, and he wondered how much pain medication he was on, precisely. “’m fine,” Jon tutted. “Sorry for worrying you.”

And yet, he had both a nurse checking his vitals and a Martin attempting to straighten out his sheets. “I’m _fine,”_ he insisted, first at the nurse and then at Martin, though the reassurance died in his throat when he looked at him.

Red eyes or no, Martin looked nearly sick with worry. Jon forced himself to remember the few days that Martin had had – and that he had no memory of dealing with the supernatural prior. At least, when Martin had been his assistant, Martin had had a few months gap between discovering that the supernatural was real and having to deal with it head-on.

Jon raised his hand and let his fingers trail over Martin’s jumper. It was clean, with no obvious bloodstains. Martin had definitely showered between then and now. Jon hoped he’d eaten, too. “I’m fine,” he offered in a gentler tone of voice, because he was. There was a low ache coming from his head, but nothing more.

“Vitals are steady. You sound like you could do with some water.”

Jon wet his lips and found that they were dried and cracked. He nodded gratefully when the paper cup of water was presented to him and downed it. Martin sat down back in his chair as Jon returned the cup. “Hungry?” Before Jon could shake his head – he wasn’t, really, the last thing he could think of was _food_ after waking up – the nurse’s eyes flicked up and down his body. “I’ll grab you some lunch,” he remarked, before disappearing out the door. Jon wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Neither of them spoke as Jon shifted in his bedsheets to stare at Martin. Martin stared right back.

Behind him, Jon could see the view outside. Twilight. That explained at least some of the dimness in the hospital room. He wondered if the idea to turn down the lights was Martin’s idea or the staff. Regardless, he was grateful.

They were painfully, awkwardly silent for minutes before the nurse came in again. Jon jumped in surprise – _please please please don’t set off the alarm! –_ before he settled back down. A tray full of food was placed down in front of him on the little table. He checked Jon’s vitals once more, and then he was gone.

Jon looked down at the food. Honestly, he couldn’t be a critic. Potatoes, peas, and a bit of chicken would probably do him well. There was one thing, though – he picked up the bowl of sticky toffee pudding and held it in Martin’s direction. “Do you want this?” He asked. “If I eat something sweet, I’m going to be sick.”

Martin stared at the bowl as if Jon had just held out a small alien. And then, he started to giggle.

The giggle turned into a laugh. Finally, Martin was laughing so hard that he had leaned forward across his knees, pressing his fingers against either side of his nose. As a result, it pushed his glasses up into his hairline. Jon shrugged and swallowed a spoonful of peas. “ _God,_ Jon,” Martin sighed in a breathy voice. “God. Oh, god god god.” Beneath his hands, Jon nevertheless caught sight of a smile.

Good. Good. Martin wasn’t crying, which probably meant nobody died. Or Martin was succumbing into hysteria, which was another alternative possibility. Jon dug his spoon into the jacket potato.

At the very least, Martin’s hysterical laughter had broken the silence between them. “How is everyone?” Jon asked him, eyes averted. Everything was dimly out of focus except for the plate of food in front of him. “I. I … I mean, if you want to talk about what happened, I’d like to listen.”

“Everyone’s fine. Everyone made it out, anyway. Nothing, ah, serious. Well – Daisy had to get stitches in her calf, but that was probably the most serious thing.” Martin seemed to avoid the second question, before uttering: “Oh! I’ve got some things of yours.”

He pulled two objects out of his pocket. Even blurry, Jon recognized them both. His glasses case and – the lighter.

From the former, Jon plucked out his glasses and rested them on his head. Oh, thank _god._ He hadn’t seen clearly in ages. Jon blinked several times behind them to re-orient himself. His eyes fell to the cobweb-designed lighter in front of him.

“It was in the jacket. And – I – I. She’s dead,” Martin forced out. “I used the lighter to, er. Set a fire. And she’s dead.”

Oh. That explained the news report, Jon supposed. He wondered if the entire tunnel system had gone up. Good riddance, if it did. Jon hooked one finger around the lighter and pulled it closer to him. The cap was opened, and the cap was shut. Jon repeated the action a few times thoughtfully to himself, hearing the pleasant ‘click’ of the hinge.

Dead, then. Finally.

The lighter was tossed into the bin. A moment passed, and then the sticky toffee pudding was tossed in after it.

“How are you feeling?” Jon asked quietly, shifting his eyes around to look at Martin. There was a strange stiffness to his hair. Bandages, he presumed, from the head injury. Martin stared at him with red, red eyes, still.

Martin was not a man who liked to talk about his feelings – nor, Jon supposed, was he. That was why he wasn’t too arsed about it when Martin looked down shyly at his chest, blushed, and muttered as a deflection, “Better now that you’re up.”

Jon wasn’t going to let himself think that it was over. The last time he had, he had found Martin encased in a web cocoon. He had gotten hit by a man he loved, _god did he love so dearly,_ and kidnapped to places unknown. He was not going to tempt fate like that.

But, for now, Jon could content himself and think that it was … a pause.

Ignoring his food, Jon reached over for Martin’s hand again. Martin acquiesced and interlinked their fingers together. Moments like this, Jon nearly forgot that Martin had only known him for perhaps two weeks when Jon had years worth of memories with him. It … well. It was sad. But not a defeat, nor a loss, because they were alive, and they had many more years to come. Jon contented himself by thinking that soon, they would spend enough time together that the differences in their memories would become negligible.

“How’re you feeling?” Martin asked instead. His eyes were wide behind my glasses.

Well, _better now that you’re up_ was taken and also not situationally relevant for him, and Jon was hardly going to discuss his feelings in such a frank manner. Any sort of clever quip had left his mind, though, as he felt –

No no _no._ Why the hell were his eyes filling up with tears again? How many times had he _cried_ in the past week? Christ, that was ridiculous. He had to start pulling himself together. Yes, he had escaped from becoming a monster again. Yes, the tears were altogether more of relief than pain or suffering. Yes, he was _happy._ But Martin was going to think he was delusional, and Martin was hugging him.

Martin was hugging him.

Then they were hugging one another. The bed sank a little under Martin’s weight. His arms were wrapped around Jon’s stomach, and Jon’s cheek was nearly shoved against his shoulder. The sudden movement was not unwelcome. He hugged Martin’s torso lightly and buried his face in the fabric there. They didn’t speak. Tired, Jon imagined, tired and overwhelmed and deeply traumatized. He hugged Martin a little tighter as he thought about how Martin had almost escaped this through some cosmic fluke. He almost could have had a normal life, hadn’t Jon quite literally stumbled back into his.

Too late to be concerned about that, and Jon supposed he had plenty of time to be guilty about it.

“God, Jon, I’m so sorry,” Martin whispered, and Jon’s ears pricked at that. _Sorry? What for?_ “It – it was like I was just stuck inside my own head, and I was _watching_ myself hit you and carry you off to … to _her,_ but I couldn’t do anything about it, and oh, god.”

He wasn’t crying, yet, but Jon could feel his chest heave. There was every possibility that Martin was working himself up into a panic attack.

Jon pulled away just far enough so that he was separated by a few inches of air from Martin’s nose. “ _Don’t.”_ Too harsh! Far too harsh. Jon saw genuine fear in Martin’s eyes for a second. “You have nothing to apologize for, Martin. In a situation that involves a giant evil spiderwoman and one of the few friends I have on this Earth, I’m not going to start blaming you.”

Martin looked rather like he would be blaming himself plenty, but he didn’t protest. He loosened his grip on Jon to place a hand on his neck. It just covered the adhesive covering one of Annabelle’s more nasty wounds. Christ, the look on Martin’s face was nothing sort of self-hating at seeing Jon’s injury. Jon furrowed his eyebrows and raised his hand in return, going to cover Martin’s wrist. “It’s fine,” he promised. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Their noses nearly bumped together. Martin’s hand nevertheless shifted up, traversing across his skin until it cupped Jon’s cheek. And from there, Jon supposed, the natural conclusion was obvious.

He pushed his lips against Martin’s own. His lips were chapped and he tasted of mint. Jon’s arms wrapped around Martin’s neck – almost immediately, his own glasses were shoved up to his hairline, and Martin did the same to his own. Martin seemed to react in shock, first, blowing air from his nose onto Jon’s face, before he relaxed. He kept his hand firmly on Jon’s cheek, the other pressed against Jon’s chest. From there, Jon could nearly feel the tension pour out of him. _Jon’s okay,_ Martin’s body seemed to express, _he’s okay, I know he’s okay._

Jon, for what it was worth, _was_ okay. Actually, it felt a little like someone had set off a rocket in his intestines, and he could have _really_ used some of that giddy numbness he had when he first woken, but those were all – mundane problems. Problems that he would be utterly _thrilled_ to deal with for the rest of his life.

When they finally separated, Jon was smiling. Martin’s returned smile was shyly present, and he brushed his nose against Jon’s again. They sat in silence for some time, finally relaxed and content in the moment that they were both safe, and okay, and – at the risk of tempting fate again – _happy._

Until Jon heard a cough.

He separated from Martin to see four women standing at the foot of his bed. Melanie had her fingers curled around Jon’s bedframe. Georgie was smirking at Jon, with one hand placed on her hip. Basira didn’t hide a roll of her eyes, while Daisy leaned against her with one crutch underneath her arm.

“W-what – “ Jon stuttered out. Martin separated from him as if Jon had gained an electrical current, almost succeeding in tipping his chair over. “I didn’t hear you all come in.”

“No, yeah, clearly,” Georgie elaborated, “Do you two need a couple of minutes? I mean, we can wait outside. You can just come get us when you’re … through.”

Jon’s face was scorching. Looking over at Martin, he saw that he had gone red from the base of his neck all the way to the tips of his ears. _Attractive,_ yes, but certainly did nothing to explain this away. “No, I – “ _Christ._ His throat was dry again. Martin looked like he was utterly incapable of speech. “God. No. We’re fine. Aren’t we fine, Martin? See. Martin says we’re fine.” Martin hadn’t moved from his spot. “Why – is there something the matter? Why’ve you come?”

“Be … cause we wanted to see you?” Melanie pitched in. “Because you nearly got eaten by a spiderwoman and that _tends_ to be something you see someone in hospital over?”

Oh. Oh, they wanted to see him. His _friends_ wanted to see him. The smile that grew over Jon’s face was hard to remove.

“Plus, we thought you might have a hard time getting around,” Basira added pragmatically. She leaned down on the floor to pick up – ah. “Here. Now, this’ll be the third one you’ve had in a week, I don’t want you losing this one.” She handed the wooden cane off to him. It was nice – not like Martin’s mothers, and not like the one he’d found in the charity shop. Jon never considered himself one for vanity, but it felt _very_ nice in his hand. “Daisy’s had a couple of runs around the block with it, she says it’s nice.”

“I’m fine,” Daisy cut in immediately at Jon’s expression. “Seriously, I am. It’s a couple of stitches. I’ve got a limp that will go away. _Basira,”_ she added with a cutting smile. Basira appropriately looped her arm through Daisy’s. “Likes to worry.”

“Oh, you should have a look at this one, he’s done nothing but,” Jon replied easily, _casually,_ in a way that surprised him. He paused in shock, even as Martin uttered a small sound of protest.

His heart felt like it was much too big for his chest – like it would grow so large that it would crack open his ribcage, burst through his skin, for all to see.

Jon couldn’t say the feeling was unwelcome.

“Well,” he added finally, “Come on in, then, no need to stare at me like I’ve sprouted a dozen eyes.” The joke was not well-received. “If you’ve come to see me, you’re welcome to have a sit.” In his dim hospital room, they all found various spots to seat themselves – on the windowsill, on the other chair, on the foot of Jon’s bed, leaning against the wall – and Jon was surrounded by people who cared for him, and who he cared for – very much – in return.

No monster in sight.


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None

Eugh. Early. Jon was thoroughly of the opinion that they should _not_ have put the bed this way, because every morning at 7 AM, the sun shone right in his face. Insufferable. He was the most long-suffering man in all of London.

What was more, he couldn’t even roll over to his other side because his bloody boyfriend was sleeping on him. Most of his torso was resting along Jon’s chest, his left arm crooked casually about his waist. They definitely hadn’t fallen asleep like that … at least, Jon was pretty sure about it. Martin’s head had flopped down into Jon’s collarbone, his curls spilling out all across his neck, and – oh. Well, Jon supposed that _was_ faintly endearing.

Desperately, Jon turned his head to the side and saw his mobile on the nightstand. “Ssh,” he bid the sleeping man as he extricated one arm to reach for it. Jon was successful in his task, and slowly rose the phone above them. Thank god for the forward-facing camera.

He was _just_ about to get Martin’s unflattering face – mouth slightly open, dried drool visible, the patchy stubble lit up by the sun – in the frame. Jon accompanied it by brushing his fingers through Martin’s hair, piling it all up in the top of his head. He curled his lips in a _look at this guy_ gesture and snapped the photo.

There was the option to send it to Georgie or Daisy, but Jon _really_ didn’t want to become that sort of attached boyfriend. Besides, he had a much better idea. He heard Martin’s phone buzz from across the room as he received it.

“I’m going to go take a shower,” Jon mumbled towards the man on his chest. No response. He ran his hand up and down Martin’s back comfortingly. “ _Martin._ Martin, get up.”

“Mmh,” Came the noise.

“I’m going to go take a shower.”

“Mmmmhr!” Came the slightly unhappier, more unwilling noise.

“I’ll go start the coffeemaker before I do?”

There was a portion of a second where Martin didn’t respond, and Jon was worried he’d have to resort to a poke in the kidney. Eventually, though, Martin sighed and pushed himself off of Jon to rest, face-first, in Jon’s pillow. Jon got up with a chuckle and tightened his robe closer around himself.

Martin looked like he hadn’t even stirred. Good. His curls nearly covered the pillow; Jon could see his back covered in freckles. The spiderbites had healed a long while ago, and Jon was thrilled to see that they hadn’t even left a mark. It wouldn’t have made him care for Martin any less, but they had bothered Martin immensely. In fact, Martin had few physical marks from the entire incident.

He ran his hand across Martin’s back from shoulder to shoulder, before reaching and grabbing the blanket. Jon carefully pulled it up and over his shoulders to keep him warm. Martin’s head shifted just enough so that he could see his cracked eyes peaking out from underneath his hair. “Nnnthanks,” Came the soft voice. Jon pressed his hand against Martin’s jaw and used his thumb to give it a fond stroke.

From there, Jon departed for the kitchen. There were cardboard packing boxes resting by the front door that Jon would have to remember to take down. They’d moved in near-on six months ago, but it never seemed like they were finished fully furnishing the place. _Apparently,_ two dining chairs were insufficient when they had the others around more often than not. Jon had never planned to have a flat where he _had people over,_ but there it was.

Finding the place hadn’t been difficult. Jon had stayed Georgie and Melanie for a while longer after release from the hospital. Martin and Jon had quietly, sort of – he supposed – dated for a month. Martin had always been keen on looking for a place, but had been having trouble. _Unfortunately,_ his little dalliance with the Web had generally meant he hadn’t shown up to work, which meant that Martin had been unemployed for a few weeks and had very little to live off of.

Jon had offered to split rent with him, to _platonically_ live with him while they were dating until they reached a point where they could romantically, _emotionally_ move in with one another.

Martin had laughed at him for a few minutes. But had agreed nevertheless and expressed his thanks.

And it _worked,_ hadn’t it, so who was the _real_ winner here.

Martin currently worked at a library. Assistant librarian. He was woefully underqualified, so Jon had manufactured his CV a little, as well as adding the Magnus Institute as a place of prior work. _Really,_ he had insisted at Martin, _you did work there, so it would be lying if you didn’t put it on, wouldn’t it?_ And Martin was doing _just fine,_ even if that was partially because his boss was Jon’s ex-girlfriend and very sympathetic towards Martin’s situation.

With Jon’s additional income as assistant researcher at a university ( _mundane,_ it was, but Jon liked the work well enough), Martin had enough free time to take night courses. _And_ he went to therapy. The latter two events meant that Martin was gone a decent number of nights, letting Jon get some free time alone, which he enjoyed deeply.

Martin had been trying to get Jon to go to therapy. There were few moments of contention between them, but that had been one of them. Jon had explained his memories to Martin, of course, but he would never _really_ understand it. Why he couldn’t just go there and pour his heart out. He knew Martin lied about the details about what happened, but how could Jon lie about _everything?_

If anything, he shared more with Martin, when his boyfriend was feeling up to it. He was thinking about therapy. He had promised Martin he would think about it, and he was thinking about it. It was just … a step. Steps could be slow.

“Morning. Surprised you haven’t been around to scream for breakfast yet,” Jon appreciably told the chubby black cat winding between his legs. Georgie and Melanie were off investigating a haunted boat in Wales. The Admiral was fine to go wherever Jon was, though he remained somewhat leery of Martin. Jon liked to affectionately tell Martin that it was alright, he put a lot of people off.

Sometimes, Jon joined them when they went to investigate. That was new. So far, it hadn’t been anything that couldn’t adequately be explained by practical, non-supernatural means. Honestly, sometimes that granted Jon more peace than any heartfelt three-in-the-morning talk with Martin. Still. He supposed he was just waiting in fear until he found something … real, again. But, for now … it helped. And he supposed that if Melanie and/or Georgie ever found anything real for their podcast, Jon wanted to be there. _Expert in residence, Jonathan Sims._

He also found himself assisting Basira and Daisy when they required another pair of eyes. Or legs, or occasionally just a particularly flat arse to sit and watch the street go by. Their investigations were moralistic in nature: protecting the weak, advocating for the unable, providing justice for the exploited … though some of their methods were decidedly not lawful. But nevertheless, Jon always found himself convinced that he was working to help people, through whatever means, and that made him feel better.

And, finally, Martin helped. Martin helped exceptionally. Jon hadn’t had a single dream since everything had happened, but he frequently found himself unable to sleep. If he grew too restless, Martin would wake next time. And, despite Jon’s protests that Martin go back to bed, Martin would nevertheless prop his head up on his hand and ask in a sleep-rough voice, “Everything alright, love?”

Jon felt that he was getting better. _Recovering._ He couldn’t attribute that to one person wholly, not even himself, but a dozen different sources had all come together to make certain that he didn’t lose his mind in perpetuity. It would take a while. But it was alright. They were steps, and steps could be slow.

The coffeemaker hummed to life and started to dribble into the pot. That done, Jon wrapped his fingers around his cane again and went to the shower. He passed Martin and saw Martin peacefully sleeping again, the blanket now tucked well-up over his face. _See how you like it with the sun shining in your eyes,_ Jon accused fondly.

He drove his fingers through his hair. Jon had decided to keep it chin-length for the time being. Much longer than when he originally started at the Archives – but then again, he hadn’t been covered in old scars when he originally started at the Archives, hadn’t used a cane, had comfortably slept eight hours a night. Many things had changed, and he found that this look suited him. 

Jon let himself stay in the warm water a little while longer. He had to go into work in a few hours, as did Martin. At least it could be a slow morning in. Shutting his eyes, Jon heard the bathroom door open.

“You’re an ass,” Martin announced flatly, loud enough to be heard over the waterspray, and then the bathroom door slammed shut.

Jon had to force his tongue in between his teeth to keep from giggling. He failed, and nevertheless finished his shower with a smile on his face. Jon shifted into his clothes for the day and stared at himself in the mirror. His hair still clung wetly to his face and neck. Otherwise, he could still see echoes of the nervous young man who had started at the Magnus Archives so many years ago in his sweatervest and smart trousers.

He didn’t feel like it. But he could see it.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Jon could hear noises coming from the kitchen. Their bed was messy and unmade in front of him, but it could wait for later. He couldn’t really be arsed to sort that out before noon, anyway, and instead walked to the kitchen. Martin was standing at the stove in his boxers, frying eggs. Two mugs of coffee sat beside him. It was always easy enough to tell their preferred coffee by color – Martin’s lightened by cream, Jon with not a hint (though Martin always added a decent helping of sugar when he prepared it, a fact of life that Jon had never brought up but appreciated immensely).

Jon’s fingers curled around his mug, and he took an appreciable sip. Lovely. Setting it back on the counter, Jon leaned against Martin’s back. Both arms went around his middle as Jon pressed his cheek against the space between his shoulderblades. His skin was soft and warm.

Back when they’d first moved in together, he had been surprised at Martin’s choice in sleepwear. It had usually been thick, baggy sweat outfits. Jon had realized with a start that Martin was self-conscious about seeing him even partially nude. While he had wanted to reassure Martin – he had seen him _fully_ nude many times before, in fact, the safehouse in Scotland had been small enough and their minds had been scattered enough that it was sort of an inevitability – he realized that would provide little comfort to a man who couldn’t, and wouldn’t, remember it.

Instead, he hadn’t pushed. He had let Martin move at his own pace on that front. Summer had come to London and Martin modified his apparel when the heat infected the flat – to cotton pajamas sleepwear, then to a thin t-shirt and cotton bottoms, and then to wearing a pair of boxers when it became particularly warm. Jon had privately admitted on a number of occasions that he preferred this particular outfit, though it was relatively new and Jon wasn’t sure if it would change as the season did. Still, Martin seemed comfortable and at ease now, with Jon’s arms around him and face mashed against his back.

“I thought it was a good photo,” Jon rumbled appreciatively. “Framed your face so nicely.” He tilted his head to press a few faux-apologetic kisses against Martin’s back, covered in freckles.

“Uh-huh. That’s why you were making that face, wasn’t it?” There was no true malice in Martin’s voice as he flipped the eggs in the pan. “Because you thought it was such a good photo.” Jon chuckled against Martin’s skin, an action which earned him Martin miming spitting into his eggs.

Leaning on the tips of his toes, Jon settled his chin against Martin’s shoulder. From here, he could see that Martin was making omelettes instead of simple eggs, and Jon grinned. “Any photo of you is the most striking photo I’ve ever seen –”

“Oh, fuck off!” Martin shot back, laughing. Nevertheless, he turned his head to kiss Jon fondly. Jon put more of his weight against his back as he returned it. He uttered a happy hum as he pulled away (more out of the protest of his leg than anything). “’Most striking photo’, I am going to throttle you.”

“Serves me right, trying to be romantic. And here I thought I was dating a poet,” Jon sighed out dramatically. He didn’t move from his position pressed against Martin’s back as the man seasoned the eggs appropriately, before sliding them onto a plate.

God, it was good to be _hungry_ again. Jon wasn’t sure if he’d been hungry – proper hungry – for a few years, at least in the Archives. Food had quickly morphed into something that he simply needed to stay alive but overall an inconvenience, before Jon had become convinced that he hadn’t really needed it to stay alive at all. Only statements. “Speaking of, thought any more about submitting to that magazine?”

Martin pulled a face as they both wandered over to the couch. Certainly, they had a dining table, but why sit at a wooden fixture when they could collapse on the cushions? More relevantly, Jon could stretch out and lay his head on Martin’s shoulder as he picked at his food. “It’s _anonymous,”_ Jon emphasized, “And I really think that one about the park – “

“If I _do_ submit it, I’m not turning in the faff about the park.”

“Oh?” Jon’s ears pricked up. “That’s an ‘if’. That’s more positive than you were last night. I believe your exact words were ‘The only way I’ll submit is if I die and you think the judges’ll take pity on my posthumous work’.” He pulled apart the omelette with a fork and ate it thoughtfully. “I’d suggest another one, but I’m afraid my knowledge of Martin Blackwood’s body of literature is rather dim. He’s so secretive about it, you see.”

Martin was blushing. Jon knew he was testing the boundaries a little, but Martin wasn’t uncomfortable yet. His access to The Faff About the Park had only been granted after they’d gone through two bottles of wine together, after all. “I’ll look over what I’ve got, during my break, and I’ll think about it.” Jon rose an eyebrow, testing whether he was being brushed off, before Martin emphasized: “Promise I’ll genuinely think about it.”

And that was something. Martin held no ambition to become a famous poet, he knew, but this wasn’t anywhere near that level. It was something small. Something for him.

Letting out a hum of agreement, Jon finished eating. He had taken out his phone to scroll through his messages and emails. They could be answered mostly during work. It wasn’t like he particularly wanted to ignore Martin, but he also wanted to enjoy the quiet. Sitting with eggs and coffee and Martin – it was good. After Martin finished his omelette, he affectionately looped one arm around Jon’s shoulders. Time ticked by. “Mm, Georgie wants to try out that new pub tonight.”

There was a pause where they both held the same question in their minds. Martin opened his mouth to ask shyly, “It’s not anything _weird,_ is it – “ Just as Jon rushed, “I’ll just look up the website and see what they’ve got.”

He contorted his body so that Martin could read his phone over his shoulder. “Oh, this looks nice. Look, they’ve got the cider that you like,” Martin pointed out. “Yeah, let’s give it a go, then.”

“Mm,” Jon responded agreeably as he responded to Georgie’s message. His mobile was set to the side. Outside, the front windows were open and displaying the street of London below. They lived close enough that Martin could walk to work (and often, Jon walked him to work before getting on the tube for a few stops). Eventually, he felt Martin shift beside him.

“Why’ve I got to work?” he sighed. “I ought to go get ready.”

“I’ll do the washing up.” Jon unentangled himself from both Martin, his plate, and the coffee mug before gathering them all up into a tidy pile. Martin had stood, and Jon became aware that Martin was staring at him as if he’d grown an extra eye. Jon looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Something on my face?”

Martin crouched down to give him a kiss. It was rather fervent for 7:28 AM in the bloody morning on a Tuesday, but Jon reciprocated nevertheless. He raised his arms to press on either side of Martin’s neck. Martin had put his knee on the couch, half-straddling Jon’s lap. Jon let out a series of small noises in the bottom of his throat, happy ones, pleased ones, until he realized Martin was pushing him backward. Jon relented, laying on his back on the sofa. Sudden, yes, but _definitely_ not unwelcome. Martin climbed onto the couch after him, knees on either side of Jon’s body.

He finally pulled away from the kiss. Jon felt warm, his chest rising a little more rapidly as it struggled to catch up with the oxygen fluctuations. Martin looked like he was rather doing the same. He cast a side glance to his watch – right, they did have time for a bit of making out on the couch, if they kept it _brief._

Jon pulled Martin down for another kiss again. This time, he looped one of his legs around Martin’s waist. Both of their glasses were shoved up against their foreheads as Jon parted his lips against Martin’s own, keeping him close and so, so warm. He was delighted to feel Martin’s bare chest against him, could feel his skin against his trouser leg from where it was hooked around Martin’s waist. Jon emitted a noise a little higher and a little weaker than usual, to his own embarrassment, but he didn’t think Martin noticed.

Or – perhaps Martin had. Because Martin was pulling away, gently pulling Jon’s leg off of him. His sweater vest askew and glasses now resting _next_ to him, Jon stared up with frustrated eyes. _Get back down here._

“That’s for the photo,” Martin replied smugly. He leaned over at his waist, grasped Jon’s shoulder, and pecked his cheek. “I’m going to get ready. Be back in a bit, _love youuuu_.”

Jon huffed in annoyance, but it held no weight. He retrieved his glasses and put them on, before murmuring with a defeated sigh: “ _Nn,_ still worth it.” And then Martin was gone down the hallway, towards the shower. “Love you too,” he added under his breath, long after Martin could even possibly hear him. That was fine. He would tell him later.

He re-adjusted his sweater and gathered up the rest of the dishes before going off towards the kitchen. Jon placed them all in the sink. From elsewhere in the flat, Jon heard the shower turn on. Jon stoppered the drain and let the sink slowly fill up with water – as he waited, he stared outside the kitchen window.

Jon could see the sky.

It was shining bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the end of my side-project that I've been working on for a few weeks! Usually my MO is releasing one chapter at a time, but given that we ARE getting S5 on Thursday ... I thought it best to just publish it all at once! Welcome to my 'everyone lives and everyone gets a happy ending' fic that will likely be leaps and bounds more optimistic than whatever actually happens in S5. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read or kudos'ed! Please feel free to leave a comment/takeaways/favorite lines/anything you like!


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